


Tipped Scales

by ivyelevast



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Cuddling, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Aerith Gainsborough/Tifa Lockhart, Not Final Fantasy VII Remake Compliant, POV Zack Fair, Past Zack Fair/Aerith Gainsborough, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Self-Sacrificing Zack Fair, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Zack Fair Lives, no love triangles, recovering from trauma, soft romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 157,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyelevast/pseuds/ivyelevast
Summary: If this were a different story, Zack thinks, he would be using his last moments to remember kind, green eyes and a sweet smile. He would be staring out into the raining sky, life running out of him, while making peace with the fact that he would never see his first love again. If this were a different story, Zack would not be left empty-handed, crying out as his friend stumbles away into the remnants of a battlefield. He would not be praying for that blond head to turn, aching to capture the final sight of a cherished face before locking it behind two lids.No, this does not feel like a fitting end to this story at all―and Zack overflows with the one childish thought that this is unbearably unfair. In the rare moments that he, as any soldier must, contemplated his death, he never imagined that he would die alone.
Relationships: Zack Fair/Cloud Strife
Comments: 72
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this fic for what is now just a few months shy of two years. It has been both a comfort and an obsession―I even put off playing the remake to avoid letting the game influence how I wrote it. As such, the result is the longest, sappiest, and most self-indulgent thing I have ever made. 
> 
> When I started this fic, I mainly wanted to explore how Zack and Cloud’s relationship would have developed had they both survived, but, in addition to that, it soon became an exploration of Zack’s trauma following both the events at Nibelheim and of being on the run from Shinra. Understandably, Crisis Core did not show much of the latter, but the journey must have been extremely difficult, especially since he would have spent all those months caring for a catatonic Cloud. This would have worn anyone down. 
> 
> Still, this is when I believe Zack would have done most of his personal growth. I know that people like to joke about Zack’s intelligence, but anyone who can keep himself and his friend alive for that long without getting caught must be pretty damn clever. Maybe it took Zack a while to get to that point, but since he’s a teenager throughout most of the game, I am inclined to forgive him. After all, Crisis Core is a coming of age story―sadly, it is also a tragedy, so we are all but robbed of seeing an adult Zack in action. 
> 
> And so, I decided to remedy this. And ended up writing a novel, but that is neither here nor there.
> 
> Lastly, I would like to thank my good friend, Kaitlyn, who not only betaed for me and listened to my endless rants about these dumb boys (despite never having played the games), but who also spoke so openly about mental health that it changed how I perceived Zack’s character development. This fic really wouldn’t have been the same without your contributions, friend.
> 
> Overall Warnings:  
> Although I made an effort to research PTSD, please note that this fic is intended for entertainment purposes only. Any depictions of symptoms or remedies should be taken with a grain of salt. Also, I must emphasize the unreliable narrator tag; not everything that Zack thinks or observes, whether about himself or others, necessarily mirrors the truth. Keep that in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings  
> \- Canon-typical violence  
> \- Brief mentions of starvation, as well as one instance of (accidental) binge-eating and consequent vomiting

_“Zack, what did they do to you in that place?”_

_“Well…this and that…”_

\---

Zack wakes not to the wind nipping at the exposed skin of his arm, but to the loss it reveals as it travels along its path. Where once a comforting weight warmed his side, a chill void has settled in its place. 

Instantly alert, Zack bolts upright and promptly brains himself against the rock outcropping serving as his makeshift shelter. The pain only serves to double the dose of adrenaline rushing through him, sharpening his senses as he scrambles from underneath the overhang and begins to search the darkness. The moon above has nearly waned to nothing, his Mako enhancements not helping to parse the pitch of night, but the hole in the center of all the black is unmistakable. The shock of blond hair, gray in the dim light, flutters like a beacon flame―and Zack could cry with the relief it fosters.

Zack has barely felt the passage of the last four years, but they are reflected in the figure before him. The boy he knew has grown little in size, but the structure of his face imitates the sharpness of burgeoning adulthood. His eyes, too, are different: once a clear blue, they are now tinged with strains of Mako. Sometimes, when Zack catches sight of himself in a pool of still water, the face staring back at him is uncanny in its amalgam of familiarity and strangeness, but the blond’s face, at least, is a comfort. For all that everything has changed, it still carries _some_ softness of youth. 

Taking care not to startle him, Zack stands and slowly makes his way to the blond, checking their surroundings. The setup of their camp, if a cleared spot of rock can be called that, is risky at best. The mess of boulders drifting out of the landscape of dying forest allows for far too many opportunities for an ambush, but a nook tucked away toward the ground is safer, what with Shinra owning the skies. The assurance of solid rock at their backs, too, goes a long way to grant Zack enough peace of mind to rest, even if his subconscious remains ever watchful. 

Eyes finally grown accustomed to the dark, Zack is struck by the unfamiliar position of the blond’s limbs. Only a couple of yards away from their shelter, he sits atop his folded legs, as though he fell to his knees and melted in on himself. It is rare for him to walk around in the first place, let alone move, but Zack is most fixated on the way his hands rest listlessly on the rocky ground, palms facing the sky in entreaty, fingers curled inward. His head, usually slumped to the side or toward his chest, is craned back, appealing to the heavens. 

Unable to tolerate the stillness any longer, Zack crouches, drops a gentle hand on the blond’s shoulder, and gives him a little shake, just enough for him to feel it―if he can feel anything at all―but the motion only unbalances him, tipping his head forward. In all the black and gray of the night, the only color is found within the slackness of his expression: a splash of iridescent blue-green.

“Cloud?” 

For a moment, the blue-green flickers in a semblance of lucidity, and Zack loses all breath as Cloud’s lips part and a letter not unlike a Z creeps into the shape of his mouth. But, in the next moment, Cloud’s jaw relaxes. The blue-green is just as unwavering and blank, and the pinpoint pupils remain contracted to the point of nonexistence. 

Zack’s heart breaks―but it has been breaking a little more each day that his friend abides out of reach. It is the hope, he knows, that creates the longest and deepest fissures, but between the choice of hope and surrender… Well, there is no choice. 

Releasing a steadying exhale, Zack lets go of Cloud’s shoulder and musses his hair, finding comfort in the familiar ruffling motion. “What are you doing out here, huh? Nearly scared me to death.” He waits, listening to an imagined reply. “Yeah, I guess fresh air is a pretty good way to deal with nightmares, but wake me up first next time, okay?” 

There is no response, not to the request nor to the hand stilling in the mess of blond hair. Zack is helpless to the pinch of guilt that nips at him. It is one thing to break personal boundaries when the target can easily duck away, laughing, but it is another to do so when they are not even cognizant. Even if Cloud were awake, Zack is not sure that he would appreciate the gesture. Despite the stars glimmering in his eyes whenever they spoke, Cloud is, by all accounts, skittish and withdrawn. There must be only so much human contact one such as him can tolerate, especially after literally being dragged all across Gaia. 

With a huff, Zack retreats, crossing his arms before huddling next to his friend for warmth. The wind is colder than usual tonight, the boulders faring badly in sheltering them from its bite. Thanks to the Mako, it is bearable, but it is not conducive to peaceful rest, so Cloud will just have to suffer contact for a little while longer. Midgar, at least, looms ever closer.

“Alright, sunshine, let’s get you back in bed,” Zack announces and then rises before falling back into a few squats, generating heat. On the final squat, he slides his arms under Cloud’s knees and shoulders, stands with a dramatic huff, and approaches their pitiful shelter. “Next time, we’ll book a room in a classy inn, for sure. Just imagine: pillows stuffed with real feathers, running water―the works.” Delicately, Zack nudges Cloud’s temple with his own, grinning. “Maybe even room service.”

With precision, Zack lowers Cloud beneath the outcropping, careful not to nick him against the slate, and deposits him by the wall before joining him. Back turned to the world, he nestles Cloud up against him, wrapping an arm around his waist. The wind steals so much body heat from them, but the space in between them, at least, can last the entire night. 

As an afterthought, Zack raises his free arm and locks it into the first. If Cloud moves again, he will not be caught unawares. The spikes of Cloud’s hair, softer than a chocobo’s feathers, tickle the underside of his chin. Quietly, he releases a sigh.

“Night, Cloud.” 

Zack does not sleep much more that night.

\---

The most arduous part of being on the run is not having to elude Shinra―it is having to survive all the moments in between. Shinra’s cache of resources and agents is endless, whereas Zack has only the Buster Sword, a catatonic Cloud, and a ragtag collection of supplies, the latter of which he has been forced to abandon several times to facilitate a quick escape. To say that they are half starved is perhaps an understatement. 

Most of their fare comes from the land itself, procured either through foraging or hunting. A sword is perhaps not the most ideal weapon for hunting game, but it is more reliable than launching himself at a deer’s neck, hoping that his weight and the momentum will be enough to crack its spine―not that the former boasts a high success rate either. When his steps are more stumble than stride, there is no time for finesse―there are only two empty stomachs and a desperation cultivated from the fear of leaving someone important undefended. 

Whenever possible, Zack acquires provisions―vegetables, mostly, as they are harder to come by in the wild―from the settlements they pass on their journey. Rather, he steals them. Idealistic notions such as honor, it turns out, quickly lose their sheen when your friend is wasting away before your eyes. An occasional kind soul would have perhaps shared their meal with them, if for a price, but Zack takes few chances these days, especially after Cissnei caught him only feet away from his parents’ house in Gongaga. 

Still, his hauls cannot even be deemed as such―they are small, pitiful offerings that more often than not bypass his own mouth to land in Cloud’s. However, the first time he amassed a feast―thanks to a stroke of luck and ingenuity―he could not resist the temptation. In between administering small bites, already partially chewed, to Cloud’s mouth, he gorged, crying into the tender meat. His body, unused to the excess, protested, and soon, Zack lost all of it in painful heaves. Cloud had solely escaped the same fate because Zack had, for once, not waited for him to finish first, what with how Cloud was only able to eat slowly. Zack stewed in guilt that night, having to wait to continue feeding Cloud. Water had not been among the bounty, and he was loath to taint Cloud’s portion with the taste of bile. He reluctantly bit into a tart pastry to be rid of the acid coating his tongue.

It is ironic, Zack thinks, that, if not for the Mako pushing their bodies onward after they have already met their limits, they would undoubtedly be dead by now. _Cloud_ would be dead by now. Of course, if not for the Mako, Cloud would not be catatonic in the first place. But, if not for Hojo and all the scientists tinkering with their insides, Cloud would not have survived the wounds he suffered at Sephiroth’s hand. The cycle of factors and consequences brings a pain to Zack’s head if he thinks of it overlong.

Zack exhales steadily, pressing his palms against his eyelids. His stomach is whining quietly even after devouring the last of their supplies, and his legs are sore from traversing a stretch of particularly perilous cliffs while balancing Cloud on his back, the Buster Sword strapped to the blond’s in a facsimile of a shield. It had been a nightmare trying to keep Cloud from pitching off backward with the added weight. A more logical option would have been to leave the sword and make two trips, but the wastelands are full of monsters. Cloud cannot be left alone for too long, not even for the scant chance of a meal, let alone a venture for an abandoned sword. 

Besides, although the thought of food entices, there is no game to be had in these lands―none but the monsters, and, hunger aside, Zack cannot stomach the notion of eating their flesh. With a lurch, he wonders if it would count as a form of cannibalism if some of those creatures, in truth, used to be humans. After all, Angeal had been so certain that SOLDIERs were nothing but monsters flooded with Mako. With all that he has seen, Zack wonders about himself, wonders if, according to his late mentor, he is branded as such, what with all the Mako in him. If Cloud is.

Once, Aerith had spoken to him about SOLDIERs, not recognizing the glow of his eyes. _Scary_ , she had said. _They fight, and they love it._

When Zack had first joined Shinra’s army, he had, naturally, expected to fight, but he had never signed up to become a murderer. Full of boyhood dreams, he had only ever been in it for the glory, for the chance to heroically help those in need. That was before, of course, he realized that Shinra only ever helps its own. Zack was a fool, and perhaps he is still a fool, but he has not yet become a monster. He felt no joy in granting Angeal his death, nor did he revel in cutting down Genesis. If he is a murderer, then he is a reluctant one. 

Regardless, none of that will matter if Zack cannot survive this. After months of toil, he is simply and utterly _tired_. He is tired of not sleeping, of eating so little, of talking to the air, and of pressing his fingers to Cloud’s pulse when he breathes so shallowly that he might as well be dead. He is tired of running and running. And running. But, above all, he is tired of being a pawn in Shinra’s game. 

For all Zack knows, they are being corralled to Midgar like docile bovine, but he chose Midgar as their destination because of a letter warped with salt and the scent of lilies, and he has not been able to shake that decision. The thought of Aerith at the end of this journey warms like a candle-lit window of a cottage in a barren, night-soaked field. The initial need to see her was knee-jerk, a natural reaction to her hurt, but now, Zack understands that she is their last hope, someone that just might be able to hide them. To heal Cloud. To _help_. 

However, despite Angeal’s attempts to train it into him, Zack was not born to strategize long-term campaigns. In his time at Shinra, he never bothered asking “why” before following an order―the perfect, mindless soldier. Now, at the cusp of the end of their journey, Zack _tries_ , but he can only anticipate so many of Shinra’s machinations. At least Midgar, with all its labyrinthian charms, might be able to mask them, but they must reach it first.

Between them and the city stretches a swath of empty wasteland. The idea of walking said distance resonates like the opening bars of a requiem.

With a sigh, Zack glances down at Cloud sleeping in his lap, having let him rest after their meager lunch. Mindlessly, he lets his hand gravitate toward the blond spikes and fiddles with them, focusing on each strand sliding across the leather of his glove. Nighttime might be the key, he decides. Nighttime and stealth. Of course, it would mean having to wait until morning for the Sector 5 gates to open, but as long as they keep out of sight of any Shinra helicopters, they might have a chance. 

And, if said chance leads to their survival, then Zack might stop feeling like a failure. 

Zack grimaces, shutting his eyes in shame. The fact is, for all his bravado, he never did manage to save _anyone_. Not Angeal, not Genesis, and certainly not Sephiroth. Nibelheim, before Shinra rebuilt it to conceal the incriminating evidence, had been reduced to cinders. Its townspeople had all died, the ones who were not struck down in the first wave consumed by the flames. As far as he knows, he and Cloud are the only ones who survived the massacre. Zack cannot let all that sacrifice go to waste. 

Thus, Cloud has to live. There is simply no other option, no lifetime wherein Zack will accept his own survival if the price can only be paid in Cloud’s blood. He has no other way to atone. 

Below, Cloud’s breathing has begun to quicken, reflecting a change in awareness. Drawing his hand away, Zack leans forward, looking in on his bleary-eyed face. Most of the time, he can barely track the difference between sleep and wakefulness in his friend, but he nonetheless welcomes any indication of life. He likes to imagine that, somewhere in the fathoms of his subconscious, Cloud must still hear him―and that it brings him comfort.

“Good morning, sunshine!” he chirps, only to squint up at the sky. “Or…good afternoon, I guess.” Cloud’s response consists of a slow blink, which is more encouraging than his usual lack of any. “You can go back to sleep, if you want. We won’t be moving out until dark.”

And then…Cloud closes his eyes and tilts his head ever so slightly sideward, pressing against Zack’s thigh with an exhale.

Zack frowns, brows knitting, and reaches out a shaking hand. Before it can touch Cloud’s cheek, the horizon plays a distant melody of a rumbling engine and a crackly radio, stealing his attention. Distracted by the unexpected boon― _A truck, Cloud! Can you believe our luck?_ ―he forgets all about the gentle nudge and quiet huff. 

\---

A single bullet hitting the hood of the truck is enough to break the little hope Zack dared to harbor.

Loath to endanger the kind driver, Zack screams for the man to brake and then grabs Cloud before vaulting from the truck bed, nearly stumbling as he lands on loose gravel. As the truck speeds off, leaving a shroud of dirt in its wake, all he can focus on is the litany of _sniper sniper sniper_ clamoring in his skull as he propels Cloud forward. They could move faster if he were to carry Cloud in his arms, but they must already form a conspicuous target. No need to make the sniper’s job easier. 

Thankfully, the safety of the crags soon rises around them, sheltering them from the bullets. Crouching, Zack slips Cloud’s arm off his shoulders and props him against the rock wall before leaning back. He stills, staring. Cloud does not look back.

If it would not give away their position, Zack would scream. His dreams of the future were a welcome respite from reality, for all that they lasted the length of a conversation. Outside this fragile haven, a portentous pall spreads through the air, tasting of a coming storm. He knows that he cannot let himself think any more thoughts, nor can he dwell. He has already made his choice, regardless of how this will end.

With a smirk that barely hides a grimace, Zack extends an arm and ruffles Cloud’s hair, promising himself that this will not be the last time he does so. He is rougher than usual, Cloud’s head jerking about like a puppet’s on a length of jostled twine, but the gesture is grounding. Zack feels stronger for having done it. 

He stands, the Buster Sword’s heavy weight at his back, and turns to leave before he can change his mind. And stops― _is_ stopped. Whatever caught him tugs at the fabric of his pants, insistent and determined. Fearing to hope, he spins around and slams down onto his knees, gravel burning him upon impact. 

_There_. Cloud’s eyes, once preternaturally blue-green, zero in on Zack’s face, his pupils dilated to more natural levels. His hand fell away from Zack when the latter dropped to the ground, but his fingers twitch and clench in a staccato rhythm, waking. Unthinkingly, Zack takes the abandoned hand in his and frames Cloud’s face with his other, providing support as the blond cranes his head. 

“Cloud, sunshine, _hey_ ,” Zack whispers, voice breaking. Cloud’s skin, wind-chafed and grimy, is warmer than it has been since Nibelheim, noticeable even through the fabric of his glove. The strokes of Zack’s thumb only warm it further. “Can you hear me?” 

“Can you hear me,” Cloud repeats, tone strange and distant. It is not an exact response, but it is an answer nonetheless, and Zack will take just about anything, here at the end of the world. Cloud’s pupils are flickering across Zack’s face, his brows furrowing in what appears to be concentration. 

“ _Cloud_ ,” Zack repeats, joy crumbling the foundations of his resignation, “you do not know how happy I am to see you right now. To see you _awake_.” He laughs, selfishly knocking his forehead into Cloud’s, starved of reciprocated contact. Cloud makes a little hum, a barely perceptible one that emits from the base of his throat. 

After months and months of emptiness, the sound is steeped in the dregs of a miracle. 

Suddenly, the urge toward flight is nearly inescapable, but it is with a pang of bloodcurdling fear that Zack registers the shouts of soldiers in the too near distance. Not only would they be shot down if they ran, but their hiding place would be discovered if he did nothing. In other words, Zack has overstayed his welcome here. Thus, summoning all the calm remaining in his raging heart, Zack grasps Cloud’s head between both hands and catches his wandering gaze. 

“Cloud, I need you to listen very carefully. I need you to stay hidden. Stay out of sight, and stay safe. Can you do that for me?” 

Zack holds his breath as Cloud opens and closes his mouth several times, expression lost. They are so close that his eyes have to dart between Zack’s own. In the end, he parrots back only a single word: _safe_. 

Zack would give a decade of his life to remain here indefinitely, but his time has run out. The longer he stays, the less the repeated word retains its validity. 

Sliding his hands from Cloud’s cheeks into his hair, Zack falls against him, face tucked into his neck, and lets himself just…rest there, for a moment. Cloud’s steady breaths billow against his skin, soft as down. He thinks that he feels a touch on his side, but it is so light that it might as well be a fragment of a dream. 

“Z-Zack.” 

Eyes burning, Zack unleashes a broken laugh. Suddenly, he yearns to be anywhere _but_ here. So, with a final squeeze and a parting “stay _safe_ ,” he rips himself away from the embrace and runs toward fate. 

He is ready.

\--- 

Mako energy has the capacity to power entire cities, but even it can falter if its conduit is a construction of flesh and bone. Zack knows that he is not invincible, per se, but his boyhood self always believed it. Mouth full of liquid metal, he rekindles this belief. At the close of his third wind, it might be the only thought that can carry him through to the end.

The cohort of Shinra infantrymen has dwindled to a number that would not normally pose a challenge. _Normally_ , Zack has not spent what feels like a lifetime hacking away at soldiers blindly following orders. His first instinct is to pity them, as he was once like them, but he can only harbor so much guilt over their deaths when they do not return the favor. It takes little extrapolation to see that Zack and Cloud, as they are, pose no threat to Shinra. After everything they have suffered, Zack just wants to be left alone―just wants to _live_. 

Dodging a bullet, Zack cuts through the nearest soldier before raising the sword to block an entire volley. Teeth gritted, he angles it to ricochet the bullets back to their points of origin, but they lose too much momentum as they hit the metal and therefore miss their targets. It is frankly a shock that they do not lodge into the sword and riddle it with cracks. Not for the first time, Zack wonders just where Angeal’s family acquired this weapon.

The air is electric, a storm nearly upon them. For all that the ominous, gray cloud cover looms over the land, Zack is grateful for the cool reprieve. Keeping the sword in a defensive position, he steps backward, hoping to steal a respite in the scant distance, if only for a moment. Any longer and he will have to acknowledge the blood loss, the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm him, and the way it is becoming painful to take full breaths. 

Zack never promised Cloud that he would return. He worries whether he set himself up for failure.

Six infantrymen are closing in on him, spread out in an inverted wedge formation. Soon, Zack will not only be unable to protect both flanks at once, but will also be trapped, for the ground only a few feet behind him cuts off in an unforgiving fashion. At this juncture, he might still survive such a fall, but he cannot risk the soldiers finding Cloud while he is otherwise engaged. He has no choice but to stand his ground or advance. 

In a place separated from time and mortal thought, the scales tip the other way. 

One of the soldiers―his captaincy proudly displayed on his uniform―takes pause before calling for a halt. He stills, head tilted as though listening. Suspicious, Zack watches as the captain orders his lieutenant with a short bark, the two advancing in the opposite direction and leaving only four soldiers guarding him. Zack knows that he should take advantage of this distraction, but he can already sense the Mako working to pour relief into his aching flesh. It cannot heal the wounds, but it can mask them, and that just might suffice. 

Then, Zack’s pain does not matter anymore, for his world crumbles into pieces.

The soldiers do not return empty-handed. Trailed by the lieutenant, the captain drags a stumbling Cloud onto the battlefield. Rejoining the ranks, he tosses Cloud to the ground in the center of the wedge, where the blond lands with a gasp, discarded. As Cloud struggles to right himself, the captain readies his rifle and points it at him. 

Zack cannot breathe. Staring at the end of the rifle barrel, he cannot process anything but that the soldier is aiming precisely at the back of Cloud’s head in point-blank range. Not even the sight of Cloud shifting to his knees, unaided, can lift the fog. 

Something… Something in Zack’s mind shifts. The _something_ is an inevitable, ineffable endnote to an agonizing sequence of innumerable days. This nameless thing trembles in tune with every inhale of his lungs, with every blink of his eyes, with every…beat of his _heart_. Its timing is…unfortunate. 

“Drop the sword!” orders the captain, startling him into clarity. “Surrender!” 

And…well. The price of freedom is steep―and Zack is unwilling to pay it. 

Without hesitation, Zack drops the Buster Sword and raises his arms, palms facing outward. An iota of shock ripples throughout the soldiers, but it dissipates promptly. At a command from their captain, the men brush up their stances, weapons snapping back to aim at Zack from where they listed as the scene played out. They do not order him to his knees, nor do they approach with a pair of cuffs.

_Of course not_ , Zack thinks with dismay, for he has just unwittingly surrendered to a firing squad. They will not be taking them back to the lab after all. 

For a second, he is grateful that their guns are solely aimed at him, loath to witness Cloud’s execution, before berating himself for the feeling. To die second, after all, is to die alone, and how could he ever do that to Cloud? Besides, why should Zack be granted the privilege of dying first when he was the one to fail everyone he has ever cared about? He longs to apologize to Cloud, but he cannot find the words, speechless in the face of death. 

_I don’t want to die like this_.

Smiling bitterly, Zack drops his gaze to his friend in anticipation of the end, only to find that Cloud is already looking back at him. The soldiers are all focused on Zack, so they fail to notice the way Cloud’s eyes flick to the side, targeting the closest man on Zack’s left. A strategist he may not be, but Zack’s instincts usually serve him well: _none of this is an accident_. 

Zack nods. 

When Cloud moves, Zack waits just a moment―just long enough to act on the apex of confusion―before shooting forward to snatch up the abandoned Buster Sword, already preparing his attack as he avoids the errant gunfire. Meanwhile, Cloud lunges for the marked soldier in a burst of unexpected speed, twisting to the side to grab hold of his rifle. Forgoing a frontal assault, he simply puts his hands over the trigger and barrel and lets the recoil do its work, incapacitating the soldier. Under the cover of Cloud’s defensive volley, Zack arcs the sword over his hunkered form and into the stunned soldier’s helmet, smashing it into his face. Before the man even hits the ground, Zack has stationed himself in front of Cloud, sword held up in lieu of a shield. 

Cloud, with his stolen firearm, has made quick work of expanding the battleground: one soldier―the captain, Zack notes―lies squirming not far away, hands clutching at his throat, whereas the rest have retreated several feet, breaking formation. No longer in melee range, Zack tightens his grip in preparation for the bullets flying toward them. 

_Cloud_ , Zack thinks, heart singing in his chest with too complex of a melody to parse. Cloud took Sephiroth down after Zack had failed―he will see them through to the end. 

The next few moments are a tangle of minute calculations and jolting adjustments of the sword as a rain of metal crashes against them. The din is pockmarked by the occasional burst of fire from beside Zack. He feels the burning barrel of the rifle nestled against his side, his only indication that Cloud remains whole. He is saving his bullets, Zack realizes―the Shinra soldiers are firing wildly, whereas Cloud is taking care to aim, timing his shots to Zack’s defensive maneuvers. 

One man goes down, leaving four, just as Zack angles the sword diagonally, standing in place as a barrier against the onslaught. He pays for it right away with a bullet to the thigh. Luckily, it misses his femoral artery, but the agony is inescapable. It awakens every wound the Mako has been placating, nearly crippling him. For a terrifying moment, Zack’s vision whites out.

When it returns, three soldiers remain standing―and Zack feels the barrel of the gun against his side slide all the way down until it rests against his leg. Pushing the pain aside, Zack bends his knees to better shield them both. He dares not turn. 

“ _Cloud_ ,” he manages, barely able to muster up enough air. 

Zack hears what can only be described as a frustrated grunt, but, he notes with relief, it carries no hurt. “M’fine,” Cloud confirms. “Legs can’t hold me up anymore. _Focus_.” 

Zack does not need to be told twice. Their ranks depleted, the soldiers begin to advance, smelling blood in the air. The more fool them. In a few short steps, they will be nearly in melee range, vulnerable to his attacks. So what if his wounds are catching up to him? Everything is as it should be. Zack has never given sacrifice much thought, but, standing in between death and Cloud, he understands the appeal. 

_I don’t mind dying like this_ , he thinks, words echoing like a warped refrain. 

Cloud’s next shot lands in the leftmost soldier’s shoulder, but it is followed by the telltale click of an empty magazine. There is no time to scour the pockets of the dead man who lies behind them, so Zack falls back on the only option they have. 

“Get behind that corpse!” he barks, waiting for the frantic scuffle of boots against rock before he lunges forward. Zack does not even feel the pain at his midsection as he exposes his flank. One bullet in him is one fewer in Cloud. 

Zack is already half in the grave, so he takes little care to avoid the soldiers’ final attempts at bringing him down. All he needs are three expert swings. The wounded man goes down first, if only because he is nearest, but the others require more finesse. Zack’s body understands what is happening to it, but it is kind enough to grant him just enough strength to finish this. 

When the last Shinra soldier lies motionless at his feet, Zack wonders if he himself might already be dead―he feels terrifyingly light, as fragile as a ghost. Above him, the sky finally breaks. The weight of the raindrops proves to be his tipping point, beckoning him toward the ground, but Zack forces himself to turn and stagger back to his friend’s side. Cloud, in the middle of rolling the corpse away from him, glances up at him as he approaches. 

He smiles.

And, _gods_ , Zack never thought he would see this again. “Sunshine” was never a teasing moniker, nor was it a reference to Cloud’s hair. No, it was always just that: a smile worthy of the sun peeking out from the horizon after the longest night. 

The smile slips away when the heaviness drags Zack to his knees. Zack rasps out a laugh, sword falling out of his grasp, and catches himself with his other arm as he tilts backward. Looking down, he finally allows himself to assess the damage, but his eyes only confirm what he knew all along. When he dares to glance back up, Cloud is already there, face only inches away and gaze fixed on the gush of red. The Mako has surrendered to the inevitable, no longer straining to stem the bleeding. 

“Zack?” Cloud whispers. He is so quiet that Zack almost fails to hear him over the ringing in his ears. 

“He-ey, sunshine,” Zack drawls, dredging up a smile just for him. “Great work out there.” 

With shaking hands, Cloud reaches out to his torso and frames the most recent wound. His stare grows distant as his gloves stain with red. Zack fears, suddenly, that he is losing him to catatonia again, that he has doomed Cloud to a slower death via starvation. But, in the next moment, Cloud locks eyes with his, and his fears are allayed. Zack is not fine, but Cloud will be. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Zack whispers, reaching out, but he has barely grazed the skin of his arm when Cloud jerks out of his grasp, not even sparing a backward glance as he wrests himself away from his side. 

“Cloud?” Zack asks the empty air. The arm scarcely holding him upright finally gives out, dropping him to the unyielding ground. He whimpers at the fresh wave of agony. 

If this were a different story, Zack thinks, he would be using his last moments to remember kind, green eyes and a sweet smile. He would be staring out into the raining sky, life running out of him, while making peace with the fact that he would never see his first love again. If this were a different story, Zack would not be left empty-handed, crying out as his friend stumbles away into the remnants of a battlefield. He would not be praying for that blond head to turn, aching to capture the final sight of a cherished face before locking it behind two lids. 

No, this does not feel like a fitting end to this story at all―and Zack overflows with the one childish thought that this is unbearably unfair. In the rare moments that he, as any soldier must, contemplated his death, he never imagined that he would die alone.

All too soon, Zack’s vision grays out, no longer registering the blond blur occasionally darting across his line of sight. With a stuttering sigh, he surrenders, letting his eyes fall shut. _It’s okay_ , he repeats to himself. Cloud is the only one he ever managed to save, but at least he will remain to remember that Zack died a hero. It is enough―it will _have_ to be enough.

He waits, listening as the sound of wingbeats steadily fills the air, and therefore thinks nothing of the feather-soft touch at his jaw. Still, he does not understand when that selfsame touch parts his lips. His mouth fills with liquid, but he has forgotten how to breathe, so he does not choke. And then, just as quickly, he _remembers_.

With a ragged gasp, he fills his lungs, and the wingbeats fade into the distance until all he can hear is harsh panting above him. When Zack opens his eyes, his world is momentarily green, sparkling and ringing with rejuvenation. The green light escapes to the edges of his sight, making way for the glow of Mako eyes boring into his own, and Zack can do nothing but stare in turn. Even deafened by the pain of wounds vying for his attention, he can pick out the notes of Cloud’s desperation. It has been so long since he has witnessed so much feeling on his friend’s face. Helpless against it, Zack smiles―and promptly winces his eyes shut in pain. One healing potion will do in a pinch, but Zack could not imagine even rolling over right now, let alone walking. 

He is almost certain that he loses time. One moment, he is tracking the remote scurrying of feet, and the next, a hand is holding his nape and the lip of a potion bottle is touching his mouth. Zack rations this one, draining it in short sips as his stomach cramps with the increasing volume, life streaming into him. When the bottle is empty, Zack carefully shifts to his side and props himself up on an elbow, allowing himself a moment to take stock. His range of vision consists solely of Cloud’s thighs and his trembling hands hovering uncertainly in the air, potion discarded. 

Zack is not yet entirely whole, but he has never felt farther from death.

He opens his eyes, unsure of when they drifted closed, to gray bedrock. Cloud―half running, half crawling―is already a quarter of the way across the battlefield, heading toward no-man’s-land, where the density of bodies is at its thickest. Still catching his breath, Zack watches in awe, transfixed by the increasing wildness of Cloud’s movements, by how he frantically searches a corpse before moving on to the next. Zack knows that he should be resting, but his friend is clearly in need of reassurance; in light of his panic, standing and stumbling toward him is the easiest thing in the world. 

Although Zack aims to quickly close the distance between them, Cloud’s search expands at a faster pace, slowed only by the number of corpses he must rifle through. As such, by the time Zack finally catches up to him, he does not recognize the manic glint in Cloud’s eyes―but he suspects that he has seen it reflected back at him in the metal of his broadsword. 

“ _Cloud_ ,” he gasps, dropping onto his backside with a huff. 

Cloud spares him a glance before returning his focus to turning out a foot soldier’s pockets. Voice breaking, he whispers, “I can’t find any more.” It is not a surprise: potions are rationed even in Shinra’s military. Only the high-ranking officers are allowed a supply, and even then, Zack made certain that they would need to use them. 

“Cloud, it’s okay.” 

Cloud, features twisted, snarls and tosses aside what appears to be an empty cartridge. “It’s not _fucking okay_.”

Before Cloud can escape his reach once more, Zack practically launches himself at the blond and clutches his shoulders in a death grip. “Cloud,” he repeats, allowing himself to feel the joy of the name in his mouth, of being alive to say it. “I’m not going anywhere. You saved me. _It’s enough_.”

_It was enough._ We _were enough._

For a long moment, Cloud simply watches him, face blank, only to inhale sharply and throw himself forward. With a startled, breathless laugh, Zack welcomes the head ducking into his neck and the arms slipping around his waist. The actions put pressure on his remaining wounds, but he can hardly care. Zack has not been held like this in…in years. He does not remember being starved of touch, but his body does, and it _aches_. Eyes burning, he lets his tears fall freely, grateful for the relief. 

Longing for a proper embrace, Zack encircles Cloud’s shoulders and tugs him forward, rubbing his back when the blond releases a quiet sob. Seemingly embarrassed, Cloud retracts a hand to press the sound back into his mouth, only to jolt. Nestled as closely as they are, Zack registers it immediately, and he pulls back to see Cloud staring at his left hand in horror―the glove is covered in dirt and Zack’s blood. His mouth is stained red from where he touched it. 

In that moment, the nameless _something_ possesses Zack. Without a care, he reaches out, slides off the offending glove, and throws it away. Thankfully, Zack manages to reassert control of the feeling before it can tend to Cloud’s bloody mouth, but the gesture is enough to snap the blond out of his trance. Seemingly eager to be rid of it, Cloud removes his right glove and pitches it toward its twin as he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. When he is done, he tucks both hands against his torso, as if afraid to return them to Zack’s waist. 

Zack should say something, but no words could encapsulate the euphoria of sitting here before his friend, nigh on whole and utterly alive. He was so certain, so many times, that this was it―he had been prepared to die. Now, looking down at Cloud, he lets himself think about the future, and― _gods_ , is he ready for it. 

“Your, your shirt is covered in blood, too,” Cloud mutters, eyes cast down to Zack’s navy top. He is right―the fabric is not only stained dark, but also riddled with holes.

Zack snorts, shaking his head slowly. “Sure, sunshine, but I’m not gonna be taking it off.” 

The way Cloud’s eyes crease as he rasps out a surprised laugh is worth every bullet he suffered today. Involuntarily, Zack clenches his fingers against Cloud’s back. They should move―Shinra might have reinforcements hidden away somewhere―but Zack decides that they can linger here for just a little while longer. They have earned it. 

\--- 

“Any other day,” Zack drawls, “we might just be two drunks stumbling home,” and then nearly trips, inexplicably proving his point. His reserves have dwindled to practically nothing, so he is functioning purely on a shot of glee, elated to be alive.

“I never had a chance to get drunk,” Cloud answers quietly, paying careful attention to the ground as they slowly traverse the wastelands. 

They are propped against each other like two playing cards: if one were to fall, the other would swiftly follow. As it is, Cloud may have avoided injury, but not even Mako can fully combat months of muscle atrophy. Their journey thus far has progressed in fits and starts, one or the other needing occasional breaks. The weight of the Buster Sword on Zack’s back, unsurprisingly, is not helping―their empty stomachs more so. Cloud has kept silent regarding food, but it is only a matter of time until hunger catches up to him; Zack has already passed the point of noticing. 

“Never?” Zack squints at Cloud, trying to recall him mentioning any particular nights of debauchery, but the blond was never the socializing type―or, perhaps his fellow soldiers never invited him out in the first place. No wonder he was so enthusiastic when Zack extended his own invitation back in Junon. “Eh, you didn’t miss much.” He shrugs the shoulder that Cloud is not leaning on, but the gesture still jostles them both, nearly toppling into each other. 

Sharing a wordless glance, they tighten their holds on each other and gradually ease themselves down. Zack removes his sword and, with a low groan, stretches out on the ragged ground, crossing his arms behind his head in a playful show of nonchalance to hide the fact that moving hurts. It seems to do the trick, as Cloud rolls his eyes from where he has sat down beside him. 

While they rest, Zack keeps an eye and an ear out for any patrolling helicopters. He has not spotted one yet, but they are in trouble if he does―there are few boulders out here large enough to conceal them both. They can only hope that the setting sun will mask them in the final push to Midgar. The door to Sector 5 is painfully close: as long as they reach it _before_ nightfall, it will open for them―that is, if they can reach it all. Although he is reluctant to admit it, his remaining injuries are taking a deeper toll on him than he expected. As far as he can gauge, they are largely internal, but those tend to be the most dangerous. Still, Midgar will have curatives, he tells himself. 

Hiding a wince, Zack turns toward Cloud, who is staring off into the wastelands, an odd expression on his face. “Hey, sunshine, what _do_ you remember?”

Cloud blinks rapidly before tilting his head. “From before, or the last thing I remember?” 

“The second one.” 

“You, mostly,” Cloud answers, rubbing at his temple. 

Sensing the change in mood, Zack sits up, shifting to close the gap between them. It must be obvious how starved of attention, of affection, he is, but Zack has always been able to get away with breaking personal boundaries―a result of amicable sincerity, perhaps. At least Cloud is now conscious and can scoot away, should he wish to. And yet, when Zack nudges his shoulder, Cloud gently nudges back. He smiles; it is heartening, to say the least. 

“We are,” Cloud starts, brows furrowing, “on the run? From Shinra?” 

Zack nods. He crosses his arms over his bent knees and drops his chin on a forearm. “Yeah. Do you remember the lab?” 

It takes a moment, but Cloud is soon nodding slowly in return. Zack is aware that he himself lost so much time to Shinra, that they kept him sedated for gods know how long. The memories he _has_ retained of the lab, however, he has buried away deep within the vaults of his mind. He has no need to return to them, even if he unwillingly visits them in his nightmares. It is a blessing, then, that Cloud seems to recall so little. 

“The clearest memories I have are of Nibelheim,” Cloud admits, head drooping as Zack’s heart sinks in dismay. “Sephiroth…and what he did to my home. Everything after that feels foggy, but I remember you.” 

As Zack watches, Cloud raises a hand to his abdomen and presses gently. With a stab of guilt, he realizes that Cloud is searching for the wounds he suffered that night. Zack is intimately―albeit reluctantly―familiar with the resulting scars. Every time he found a shallow stream, every time Zack pulled Cloud’s shirt over his head…he does not think that he will ever forget the pattern of healed-over skin. 

“Cloud, I’m sorry,” Zack blurts out, the apology failing to ease even a fraction of his regret. “I failed you. I failed all those people. If not for Sephiroth, your home, y-your mom…”

Jerkily, Cloud drops his hand and shakes his head before releasing a grimace of a smile. “You didn’t fail me. Sephiroth did.” He cranes his neck, side-eyeing Zack nigh on cautiously. “I’m glad you were with me, Zack. Anyone else would have left me in the lab.” 

Zack smiles, pleased despite himself, even if he cannot imagine how _anyone_ could leave Cloud behind. “I’d never abandon you, especially not after everything that happened,” he admits, only to quickly add, “Shinra rebuilt it, you know,” when Cloud appears ready to protest, frustration glinting in his eyes. “Nibelheim. It’s like it never burned at all. Like their precious general wasn’t responsible for the genocide of an entire town.” 

“That quickly?” Cloud’s brows furrow, his gaze growing distant. “How long did Shinra have us?”

Zack freezes, fidgeting hand stilling at his knee. _Oh_ , he thinks, mind otherwise blank. “They… Nibelheim burned over four years ago. Almost five.”

Zack remembers the rage that pooled into him as he read Aerith’s final letter, as he realized just _how much_ time had been stolen from them. On the surface, Cloud remains altogether unchanged at hearing the news, but his eyes widen and appear to…catalog Zack. Then, twisting his head at an incremental pace, he looks down at himself and lifts his arms, palms facing upward. 

Cloud has always been on the smaller side for a Shinra infantryman, let alone an aspiring SOLDIER, but the difference is most apparent now that he is in what should be his prime. What muscle he had previously, atrophy notwithstanding, he only retained thanks to the Mako―but the fact remains that he is as slight as ever. It is no wonder, then, that he did not register the scope of time’s passing. 

Zack’s heart bleeds for him: Cloud has, essentially, lost years of potential growth. Of course, now that they are fugitives from Shinra, Cloud will never join the ranks of the Mako-enhanced elite, but Zack knows it to be a blessing in disguise: Cloud does not belong to Shinra anymore and should no longer strive to. Zack’s crumbling dreams aside, there is, after all, no honor left in SOLDIER―Sephiroth saw to it with his parting blow. And Zack… Well, Zack is not a SOLDIER anymore, is he?

Regardless, he knows, has seen it firsthand, that Cloud’s power does not lie in his size or his physical strength. Cloud carries such a quiet conviction within himself―it defeated Sephiroth, and it saved Zack from an unmarked grave. He has never encountered anything quite like it.

Sighing, Cloud lowers his arms, raises his knees, and tucks himself into the space he created. With a pulse of affection, Zack wonders whether Cloud knows that he looks smaller than ever. 

“At least,” Cloud mutters, speaking into the fabric of his pants, “there was no one left to worry about what happened to me.”

And, well, is that not a morbid thought? Unfair, too, especially considering the months Zack spent quite literally worrying over each and every aspect of Cloud’s well-being. “Sure, don’t include me in your count.” Zack reaches over and shoves at his shoulder, nearly bowling him over. “Not like I almost died for you.”

Righting himself, Cloud shoots him a deadpan look. “Thank you, Zack, for getting yourself shot multiple times. I appreciate it, as does the mind I nearly lost.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Zack exclaims, surprised into a laugh. He has only seen glimpses of this acerbic Cloud in the past, but it is frankly refreshing after all the wide-eyed hero worship. Even so, the laugh quickly dies in his throat, throttled by their depressing reality. “You know, I tried to go see my parents,” he confesses after a solemn moment, surprising himself. “Cissnei―one of the Turks―caught me sneaking around in Gongaga.” 

“You escaped?”

Zack shakes his head, leaning back on his arms and disregarding the uncomfortable strain the movement creates. “No, she let us go. And not the first time either. She caught up to us not long after Nibelheim. Pays to have friends in the Turks, turns out.” At Cloud’s little hum, Zack waves a hand, expressing resignation. “She mentioned that they were okay, but…I didn’t get to see them. I don’t know if I’ll _ever_ get to see them. I can’t even remember the last time I wrote to them before Nibelheim.” Zack frowns, wondering. “It probably still wouldn’t be safe to reach out now.”

Cloud shifts in place, gaze lowered. “I didn’t write home much either.”

Shaking his head, Zack laughs, unable to stem the bitterness in the sound. “What a sorry pair we make, huh?” he remarks, only for Cloud to respond with a shrug and a frown―it is inexplicably endearing. “Come on, we should get a move on. _We_ may have slacked off, but Aerith wrote me letters this whole time. It seems rude to keep her waiting.” Using the Buster Sword as a crutch, Zack slowly stands, ignoring the agony sparking along his torso, and reaches out to Cloud to help him up. 

“From what you told me of her, I don’t think she’ll be mad,” Cloud says, voice soft. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

Zack smiles, for reacting any other way tastes of treachery. “Hopefully, for our sakes. Let’s get to Midgar before we worry about that.” 

_Four fucking years_ , Zack thinks repeatedly. 

\---

Zack does not remember the Midgar slums being so overrun with monsters, nor so dilapidated. By the time he and Cloud tumble through the doors of the church in Sector 5, Zack has both surpassed the brink of exhaustion and amassed a fresh collection of wounds, mostly consisting of bites. Even Cloud, despite Zack’s best efforts to shield him, appears a little rough around the edges.

They should have looted a weapon for Cloud, Zack realizes belatedly as he slams onto the wood floorboards. Predictably, Cloud follows in his wake, knocking into Zack’s shoulder with a grunt. 

When Zack glances up to take stock of their surroundings, the church is, understandably, empty. After all, it is not safe to roam the sectors underneath the Plate after nightfall, so he does not know why he expected anything different. Still, there is just enough light filtering in from the slums to see the path to the altar, illuminating the patch of beautiful, _thriving_ lilies. 

“Come on,” Cloud urges warily, shaking his arm―and only then does Zack register that he is laughing, breathlessly relieved. 

Closing his jaw with a click, Zack nods and shifts to his knees. Forget food, forget curatives―his only desire is to sleep, but the middle of the walkway before a gaping double door is no place for a respite. A wall, at the least, at one of their backs is required. Preferably at Cloud’s. Zack has stood between him and the world for what feels like lifetimes now―such habits require conscious effort to break.

It is becoming nearly impossible to think, so Zack scrapes up the last of his reserves, slams the doors shut behind them, and grabs Cloud’s wrist before slowly crawling toward the leftmost corner, tugging him along. 

“Zack, what―” says a distant voice, but Zack ignores it, eyes fixed on his goal. An eon later, he pulls Cloud down to lie by the wall before plopping down beside him with his back to the nave, the broadsword still attached to its harness the only allowance to his own safety. Zack curls inward, drawn to the familiar warmth. 

With a deep breath, he lets himself descend into oblivion.

\---

Zack wakes up, shivering, to darkness. He cannot say where he is, why he finds himself here, or why there is an uncomfortable weight at his back, but it only takes an instant to recognize that the body lying beside him, breathing steadily, is dearly familiar. Whereas Zack is racked with pulses of cold, this man is a beacon of heat, so Zack does not hesitate to shift toward him, burying his head into his torso and wrapping an arm around him.

The man fidgets, seemingly rousing, before he languidly mirrors Zack and attempts to slide an arm around him. When he is met with the obstacle on Zack’s back, he retreats, touching his side instead. Zack cannot help the whimper that escapes him at the added pressure to his midsection, the sound broken. 

In a tender, sleepy motion, the hand at his side rubs back and forth, soothing, before it drifts upward to Zack’s nape, where it stays. Its touch burns Zack’s frozen skin. Moments later, the man’s breathing deepens to its original state.

Zack thinks that he should be remembering something important, that he should be concerned, but everything has been lost to a rapacious, frigid fog. He slips back into it, joining all that has been forgotten. 

\---

Zack’s awareness trickles in slowly, filling his mind only partway and leaving him numb. He is lying sideways―partly on a hard floor and partly on something firm but warm―and there is an urgent jostling at his shoulder that knocks him against an unyielding material. It coincides with a faint cadence of…crying? His eyelids are glued shut, but, after a moment, he manages to lift one before promptly wincing away from the unexpected brightness. The jostling stutters to a stop, only to resume its rhythm at an even faster pace. 

“Zack, come on, get off me.”

Resigned to his restless fate, Zack makes the effort to open both eyes and encounters a blur of yellow. When his gaze focuses, the blur coalesces into a face, one precious and utterly lovely. _Cloud_. Zack _knows_ Cloud. If Cloud was the one to wake him, then he will forgive him the offense. With a dopey smile, Zack leans toward him…and curls in on himself with a gasp when the movement elicits only agony. 

The next thing he knows, Zack is lying on his now unburdened back with two blurs hovering above him―one a comforting yellow, the other an uncanny brown―and there is a cool palm resting on his burning forehead. The touch is so gentle that Zack finds himself on the verge of tears. The two angels―for what else could they be?―exchange words, but he cannot parse the conversation through the haze. 

The hand on his forehead lifts and travels to his shoulder, granting it a solid pat. By his ear, a new voice suddenly makes itself known, its words wavering but clear. “Hold on. I’ll return soon.” 

Confused, Zack pinches his eyes shut, not certain what he could hold on to when he is so empty-handed. He does not even have his weapon nearby, which he suspects he should be more concerned about. For a moment, he wonders whether the voice meant that he should hold on to the hand, but it disappears a moment later without so much as a by-your-leave. Bereft, he listens to the fading pitter-patter of what must be feet hitting the floor. 

Zack does not understand why he is alone. He could have sworn that he had someone with him, has always had someone with him. Someone important. Didn’t he?

He opens his eyes as fingers slide into his hair and crane his head up. Something scrapes underneath him, and then his head lowers to rest on something much softer than the floor. The yellow blur is back, close enough now that Zack can almost make out its face, its features upside down. It is speaking to him so softly that Zack cannot understand it at all, but the voice sounds so much like _home_. With a sigh, he closes his eyes, turning his head to nestle his cheek into the fabric beneath him. 

With startling lucidity, Zack feels the hands in his hair slip out, only for one to return and stroke the exposed side of his head. As the motion loops into infinity, Zack begins to drift, finally able to relax despite the pain throbbing in his torso. He does not know what is happening, but he is suddenly clearheaded enough to understand that this is not right, that he must be injured. The person holding him is either calm because salvation is in sight or because Zack is so far gone that searching for help would be a waste of time. 

Before Zack can be caught in the undertow of his imaginings, he is distracted by a hum, the sweet melody pouring into his ear. It is sung slowly, its chipper notes clashing with the tempo, but Zack is instantly struck by an olfactory memory of feathers and fresh, leafy vegetables. The phantom smells open a door that Zack had not even known had been barred to him.

“Cloud,” Zack whispers with a smile. 

The hand in his hair stills as the song drops off. In protest, Zack nudges his head against Cloud’s lap and then hears what might be a chuckle. It is too faint to be a proper laugh, but, in its shyness, it is far more familiar and thus far more coveted. 

“I knew I should’ve kept looking for another potion.”

Zack lets out a little sound of acknowledgment, barely listening, let alone caring. Perhaps he should not be so cavalier about his own well-being, but Cloud is not only alive, but remarkably cognizant. Even if Zack might be out of commission, Cloud can make up the difference―he will watch over him while he rests. 

Stutteringly, the tune picks back up. The hand is slower to follow, but it, too, eventually resumes its caresses. 

\--- 

Zack resurfaces from sleep with an inhale so deep that he promptly breaks into a coughing fit, his body protesting the sudden influx of oxygen. Instinctively, he grabs onto his midsection to stem the incoming agony. His memory is spotty at best―did he imagine someone singing?―but he has not forgotten the scope of his injuries. Thus, it is a shock when his insides do not protest the juddering movement. In fact, aside from an enduring, gnawing hunger, he feels remarkably _whole_. 

Cautiously, Zack slits open his eyes…only to widen them in shock. Cloud, framed by a vaulted ceiling, hovers over him with blatant concern, but it is the person crouched on his other side, face awash in a healing glow, that steals his attention. 

“ _Aerith!_ ” 

Gasping, Zack launches himself at the woman, arms spread wide for an embrace. She catches him and teeters to the side with a wet laugh, reeling from the momentum. Eyes burning, he draws her toward his chest and lowers his head into her brown hair. 

Despite the uncertainty, despite the _something_ that continues to edge to the forefront of his mind, Zack is just so blissfully relieved to see her again after months, after _years_ , of separation. Any feelings beyond these―budding ones, dwindling ones―he pockets away into the spaces behind his ribs. Only his surface thoughts are welcome here.

Zack leans back from the embrace, intending to thank her for healing him, when Aerith suddenly slaps at his shoulder. Despite being a light reprimand, it still causes Zack to wince in shame, even if he does appreciate her restraint. Anyone else would have _at least_ gone for the face.

“That’s for never responding to any of my letters,” Aerith clarifies brokenly, wiping at her runaway tears with the Cure materia still clutched in her fingers. As his heart fractures in tune to her gasps, Zack wishes that he had at least a handkerchief to offer her, if only to channel his restless sorrow into tangible action, but his pockets are depressingly empty. 

“Zack, it’s been _years_ , and now you finally show up, half dead… What happened to you? To _both_ of you?”

Aerith’s gaze drifts off to a point over his shoulder, face drawn with grief. Zack follows its lead, only to find Cloud kneeling at an awkward angle, his eyes cast to the floor. When Zack sighs, they flick up and then quickly dart away. “Shinra happened,” Zack replies and then reaches out to Cloud when the latter begins to scoot away―feeling shy, no doubt. Zack longs to nestle him into his and Aerith’s relaxed embrace, but he settles for placing his hand against his upper arm instead, glove to skin. 

“Aerith, this is Cloud. He saved my life.” 

Although he seemingly tries, Cloud cannot hide the fluster the sudden praise inspires, shifting where he kneels. Secure in the knowledge that neither he nor Aerith is looking his way, Zack smiles softly at him, masking it with an exuberant grin not a second later.

“We had a chance to meet already,” Aerith admits and nods at Cloud, who nods warily in return, “but it’s much better under less…dire circumstances.” 

“Thank you for healing him,” Cloud murmurs, after which Zack echoes his own gratitude, pairing it with a side hug from where he still has a hand resting on Aerith’s shoulder. “Did you bring any, uh―” 

“Oh!” Pulling away from Zack, Aerith stretches to reach a satchel sitting on the nearest pew. “Of course. Only a couple things though, since I had to rush.”

Zack’s eyes widen of their own accord at the loaf of bread Aerith digs out of the bag. The bread is followed by a water bottle and, miraculously, an apple, a fruit he has not laid eyes on in literal months. Perhaps rudely, Zack only pauses to rip off his dingy gloves before he snatches the food from Aerith’s hands. He breaks off a moderate piece of the bread and passes both it and the apple to Cloud, who frowns.

“Eat very slowly, and don’t finish it if you don’t think you can,” Zack warns before untwisting the bottle and tending to the thirst he has been willfully ignoring. When the immediate need has been slaked, he pushes the water at Cloud, who huffs at having to juggle three items. After Cloud manages to raise the bottle to his lips―throwing a dirty look―Zack finally tears off a piece for himself, making sure to follow his own advice after popping it into his mouth. A few years ago, he might have pouted at the taste, but now, the rough bread is practically ambrosia. 

Mid chew, Zack pauses, feeling eyes on him. Guardedly, he glances up to find Aerith sporting perhaps the most pitying expression he has ever seen on her. He shrugs, smiling to hide his humiliation, and refocuses on his meal. He can already feel his stomach distending uncomfortably, unused to the heavier fare, but he soldiers on. After all, good food is surely the way to recover from his months-long ordeal. With weeks of regular meals, he should soon feel like himself again―that is, whatever it means to be Zack Fair these days.

As Zack carefully works through his bread, Aerith resettles and waits patiently, keeping her serene gaze aimed at her sun-drenched garden. Zack cannot help but steal glances at her. If she notices his attention, then she does not seem to mind it, unfazed by even the timorous sounds of the apple crunching nearby. She, he realizes with a pang, is still wearing the hair tie he bought her. Just like them, she looks older; unlike them, she looks wiser. Less susceptible to silly boys falling through ceilings, perhaps. 

Startled by a touch at his knee, Zack looks down to see a hand offering a half eaten apple. When Zack does not react, it shakes, persistent. Wary, he attempts to catch Cloud’s eye, but the blond does not even deign to turn his way. Helpless to the _something_ blooming in his heart, Zack relents, tapping Cloud’s forearm in thanks before carefully lifting the apple from his grasp.

Perhaps noticing the movement, Aerith shifts back to face them and offers an encouraging smile, which only deepens when she takes notice of his laden hand. Unwittingly, Zack curls his fingers around the skin of the fruit, tucking it toward himself. With the _something_ once more at the forefront of his mind, all the clandestine thoughts he had locked away wriggle their way past his defenses. 

_A pair of lovers wouldn’t reunite like this_ , they say, reeking of guilt. The reality of it weighs on him like a condemnation. 

“Aerith, I’m so sorry for everything,” he rasps out, folding a secret apology into the final word. Ultimately, he feels the most remorse for the lack of regret. Zack has lost so much, but he cannot stand to lose what he has gained, even if he must, for now, keep the truth of it close to his chest. “I’m sorry for being gone, and for not writing, and for―” 

“Zack, stop, you don’t have to do that,” Aerith interrupts, raising her palms as though to stem any further apologies, but Zack shakes his head. 

“No, I really do,” he disagrees, only to quietly add, “But I’ll stop,” when Aerith’s brows furrow with indignation. 

“Good. None of that now. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” She makes a beckoning gesture, expression softening. “Tell me what happened instead.” 

“Y-yeah,” Zack murmurs, humbled in the face of Aerith’s easy forgiveness. “Yeah, I guess I can do that. Um, before, when we talked last, I couldn’t tell you where I was ‘cause the mission was confidential, but after… I wasn’t really able to contact anyone.” 

“Were you attacked by monsters?” Aerith hedges, eyeing Zack’s ripped uniform. “I’ve only seen wounds like that on people who wandered into the dangerous parts of the slums.”

Hesitating, Zack darts a look at Cloud, who frowns before nodding pointedly at the apple. Rolling his eyes, Zack bites off the most obnoxious chunk of the fruit as possible. He promptly chokes as its juices fill his mouth. 

“Only at the end,” Cloud replies, sparing Zack an amused glance as he struggles with his regrettably large mouthful. “Before that, an army of Shinra soldiers almost murdered him.” 

Funny―at the time, Zack had not thought of it as “murder.” “Execution” seemed more fitting. “That was after months of them chasing us,” Zack clarifies, wiping at his mouth. “Almost five years ago, Shinra deployed us, Sephiroth, and a few infantrymen to Nibelheim to inspect their Mako reactor.” 

As Zack recounts their history, Aerith’s expression hardens, growing ever grimmer. When he describes Sephiroth’s mysterious and abrupt descent into madness, he wonders whether this might be exactly the reason why Shinra was so determined to gun Zack down, lest he spread what happened to their poster-boy general, as well as everything else they must be keeping from the public eye. For her sake, he remains light on the details, loath to burden her with sensitive information, let alone reveal the scope of his suffering. As such, he largely skips over their years in the Shinra mansion’s lab, partially out of necessity and partially out of capacity. By all accounts, he remembers more of their internment than Cloud, but even what he retains have mostly diffused into flashing visions and echoes of agony. 

Sometime midway into Zack’s ramblings, Cloud stands and wanders off, inspecting the church as he goes. Concerned, Zack tracks his movements, but eventually decides to let him be. While it might benefit him to hear what he has missed, revisiting their journey at this juncture might do more harm than good. So, keeping a sharp ear attuned to his friend, Zack picks up where he left off, detailing their escape from Nibelheim. 

Then, when Zack finally arrives at the cliff overlooking Midgar, he finds himself scattered and blathering, having to double back several times to map out anything resembling sense. If Aerith does not follow his speech, then she is at least kind enough not to voice it. As he stutters, she reaches out and takes his hand, which she envelops in both of her own. The touch grounds him: although it brings little clarity to his words, he is at least able to continue. 

After his words cease, Zack realizes that he is crying―but he does not fully understand why. Despite everything Shinra put him through, Zack, after all, _survived_. Cloud is both safe and healing from the Mako. Aerith has clearly not forgotten him, and even his parents are still alive and well. What is there to cry about? 

Distracted by his uncanny grief, Zack startles as Aerith draws him into a one-sided embrace, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a reminiscence of older days. She means to comfort, but the missed familiarity of human contact only serves to disquiet him further, forcing Zack to momentarily hide his face before he hurries to wipe the tears from his cheeks. 

“Sorry. This must―” Zack hiccups, flushing in embarrassment. “Must’ve been building up for a while. Guess Shinra took more outta me than I thought.” _Didn’t take everything though_ , he thinks as he glances up in search of Cloud, needing to confirm his proximity. Seemingly lost in thought, the blond sits on a distant pew, enthralled by a stained glass window. Somehow, that sight alone is enough to stopper Zack’s tears altogether.

“Don’t _apologize_ , Zack. I already told you: there’s nothing to forgive,” Aerith whispers, voice unsteady. “I’m just happy you’re alive. It’s only natural that you didn’t come back the same.”

“I’m not that different,” Zack protests, unable to shake the notion that he is being accused. And yet, she is not wholly wrong, is she? Would his past self have burst into tears from a simple hug, or banished those same tears with a single glance Cloud’s way? Still…it would not do to burden Aerith with this realization, not when he himself has barely begun to understand its implications. “But really, Aerith, don’t worry about me. I’m probably just tired,” he mutters with a sniffle, patting her arm. 

Thankfully, Aerith takes the hint and sits back, granting him some breathing space. “I’m never not going to worry, but okay. But also―” She raises her hand, index finger extended menacingly. “―I still don’t want to hear any more apologies from you, got it?” 

Staring cross-eyed at her finger, Zack does not hesitate to nod, at which Aerith relaxes into a sweet smile, dropping her hand. 

“Good. So, what do you plan on doing now?” 

And that is the question, isn’t it? Zack has been planning their lives on the basis of one destination, pinning their hopes on Midgar, on Aerith. Yet, now that they have finally arrived, he feels… _lost_. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “We need to avoid Shinra, obviously, and I need to― Hell, I think I need to find a _job_.” 

No longer employed by Shinra, Zack does not have a stipend to fall back on, and he cannot rely on Aerith’s hospitality forever. There is always mercenary work, that suggestion of a dream he offered to a kind but nosy truck driver, but the idea does not sit well with him. If they are to remain under Shinra’s radar, it seems ill-advised to pursue it. While they left no witnesses to their escape, the lack of evidence of their own demise will undoubtedly cause Shinra to suspect their survival. Therefore, an unassuming job, somewhere out of the way, would be safest.

“We can start figuring that out tomorrow,” Aerith offers gently and motions with her hand, palm-side up. “Small steps, okay? What do you need _today_?” 

Zack crosses his arms and tilts his head, glancing around the nave as he ponders. His gaze catches on the Buster Sword resting by the wall, and he exhales in surprise, not having even realized that he had misplaced it―or, rather, had it removed, seemingly when he was addled by delirium. It seems…out of place in such holy surroundings, but, he supposes, he himself does not especially belong here either―not after all the blood he spilled.

“Zack?”

Jolting, Zack looks back at Aerith―who watches him all too shrewdly―and promptly clears his throat. “Sorry, got lost in thought. I, ah, suppose we could do with some basic supplies. We don’t need much,” he hastens to add, waving his hands, “but even just more water. A little more food. Maybe some soap, if you have some.” The last is said with a scrunched nose―he is all too aware of what they smell like. 

Clearly trying to save his dignity, Aerith stifles a giggle and nods. “I can do that,” she confirms, only to sober with a worried frown. “I’d offer to let you stay at mine, but my mom might not…”

“N-no, that’s okay,” Zack reassures, reluctant to drag Aerith’s mother―who never especially liked him―into their troubles. Besides, the fewer who know about their situation, the better. Still, if they are to squat in the church for the time being, then one or two more basic comforts would not go amiss. _Case in point_ , Zack thinks as he glances down at his shirt, plucking at the blood-stained fabric. Aerith would not likely own any clothes that would fit him, but… “Hey, if you happen to have a spare jacket around, just to cover this, could I borrow it?”

Sucking in her lips with a hum, Aerith reaches out and tugs at the ruined shirt. “I might, but it’d probably be too small. I’ll see what I can do. Oh, and―” She eyes his pants, no doubt noticing the bullet-made tears in the black fabric. “―I can bring you a sewing kit, too. You can’t really see the blood on these, so you wouldn’t attract too much attention if you kept them.” 

“Thanks,” he replies with a grin, appreciating her practicality. It has been a while since he was forced to mend his own clothes as a new recruit, but between him and Cloud, he is almost certain that they can sort it out. “I’ll pay you back for everything, I promise.”

Smiling sweetly, Aerith tosses her head from side to side. “We’ll see,” she intones ominously before rising and smoothing out her dress. “Well, I better not waste daylight! I’ll be as quick as I can. Don’t go anywhere?”

“Of course not. We’ll be here,” Zack promises, standing to match her despite the weakness in his knees. 

When Aerith, green eyes shining, leans in, Zack fears that she is expecting a kiss, but, in the next moment, she simply slides her arms around his waist and squeezes. Dumbfounded, he returns the gesture, plopping his chin on top of her head with relief, to which she giggles into his chest and playfully pushes him away. 

“Alright, I’ll see you soon!” With that, Aerith strides off down the aisle, calling a friendly goodbye to Cloud on her way out. Shaking his head in wonder, Zack follows her path and then pivots to meander alongside the pew that Cloud claimed. 

“I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve her,” Zack confides as he nears his friend. When Cloud does not reply, let alone acknowledge him, he crowds in closer, ducking to catch his attention. “Cloud? You doing okay?”

“You doing okay,” Cloud repeats dutifully, expression shuttered and limbs listless. 

Breath hitched, Zack shoots out an arm and shakes Cloud roughly by the shoulder, gasping out his name. 

With a soft grunt, Cloud blinks in quick succession and then screws his eyes shut, lifting a hand to his temple. Searching Cloud’s face for any signs of relapse, Zack lowers himself to the pew, trusting that the wood will be there to catch him. Cloud, in turn, remains eerily still, his harsh breaths and minute twitches of his brows the only movements betraying his consciousness. 

“Sunshine?”

Cloud opens his eyes and inhales, blinking rapidly once more. He begins to track their surroundings, pupils dilating at every new detail, until his gaze finally lands on Zack, his confusion painfully evident. 

“Where did Aerith go?” 

Unwittingly, Zack tightens his grip on Cloud’s shoulder, only to force himself to relax, loath to exacerbate the situation with panic. “She left just a second ago,” he answers, repeating to himself that, if Cloud can yet ask questions, then he is not lost to him. “She’s going to get some supplies for us.”

“Okay.” Cloud pauses, glances down, and taps a finger against the pew. “When did I…get here?” 

“A while back. Maybe twenty minutes or so.” Ignoring the sirens that continue to blare in his mind, Zack steels himself and asks, “Cloud, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“You were telling Aerith about Nibelheim and being captured. I’d just finished eating,” Cloud answers readily, meeting his probing gaze. “Did I really just walk away?” When Zack nods somberly in reply, he bites his lip, drops his head into his hands, and massages his temples. “I don’t remember doing that.” 

This, Zack realizes with dismay, must be the effects of the Mako poisoning. Perhaps it was foolish to assume that Cloud made a full recovery solely because he had regained consciousness, but Zack’s knowledge of the chemical is admittedly limited. There were rumors among the Third- and Second-Class SOLDIERs that the Mako treatments did not always take; that, even though a candidate’s performance was promising, it meant nothing if one was susceptible to Mako. However, none of his cohort or his superiors had ever mentioned side effects like memory loss or dissociation. Is this yet another secret Shinra is determined to keep hidden? 

Or, perhaps it is not the result of the Mako at all, but of the drain of the last few years. Shinra never particularly cared about the well-being of its cannon fodder―not even its SOLDIERs―but Angeal had been far more doting. Zack vaguely recalls him explaining something called combat fatigue, a phenomenon wherein soldiers could no longer stomach the horrors of war, retreating into themselves to escape it. Zack has never witnessed said condition firsthand, but, if Cloud might be suffering from it, then the very least he can do is offer him solace. 

Thus, careful to move slowly in case Cloud is not in the mood for contact, Zack shifts his hand from his shoulder to draw him into his side, arm resting along the blond’s upper back. When Cloud does not resist, Zack presses him just a tad closer, surrendering to a selfish impulse. 

“It could’ve been your body trying to protect you from everything that’s happened,” Zack murmurs, stroking a thumb against Cloud’s upper arm. “We’ve…been through a lot, and I was just repeating it all.” 

Dropping his hands, Cloud shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe I was just sleepwalking. I’m not sure.” Side-eyeing Zack, he mutters, “You said Aerith went to get supplies? Am I staying here?”

“We _both_ are,” Zack confirms, willing to drop the subject for now if only because he does not dare push―well, and because he cannot refrain from correcting him, perplexed as to why Cloud would assume he would abandon him after all they have been through together. “Hope you won’t mind me as a roommate, sunshine! Anyway, not like we can afford anything else right now, but we can start figuring that out tomorrow. In the meantime, we just have to hope Aerith is nice enough to feed us through breakfast.” Outwardly, Zack grins with confidence; inwardly, he rations the remains of the bread she had brought―it should last them at least until morning.

Cloud snorts quietly, rolling his eyes. “I doubt she’d spend all that energy healing you just to let you starve.” 

“You don’t know that!” Zack playfully exclaims. “I did leave her in the lurch for years. I’d be pretty upset, if I was her.” 

“I think you had a good excuse,” Cloud reasons, shrugging and nearly dislodging Zack’s arm.

Undoubtedly, but Zack is far too accustomed to being the one providing for them: even if he knows that they can trust Aerith, he would feel much more at ease knowing that they have a back-up plan. As such, Zack simply smiles in lieu of a response, and, without a contribution from him, the conversation falls to the wayside. 

Oddly unbothered by the quiet, Zack reclines against the back of the pew and proceeds to glance around the nave with curiosity. Despite its state of disrepair, the church, he realizes, truly is beautiful. He never appreciated it when he was younger, too focused on monopolizing Aerith’s attention, but the rays of light filtering through the fractured roof to the bed of lilies, framed by stately columns, is quite a sight. It is not an inn with feather-stuffed pillows and room service, but it will do them just fine. 

_They_ , too, will be fine―as will Cloud. Zack will accept nothing less. 

“You’ll be fine, Cloud,” Zack repeats out loud, mostly for his own sake. “You probably just need rest, but we’ll keep an eye on you until we’re sure you’re okay. For now, just take it easy.” 

On a whim, Zack lifts his arm from Cloud’s shoulders, intending to ruffle his hair, but the moment Zack feels the soft spikes under his fingers, Cloud jolts forward and out of his reach. As one, they freeze, Zack’s hand hovering in the air above Cloud’s tense back. Then, with a strained laugh, he retracts his hand and threads it into his own hair. He cannot help the pang of hurt nicking at his heart, but he can hardly protest if Cloud needs to preserve some personal space. Still, he himself would not mind some space of his own right now. 

Standing, Zack clears his throat and says, “I’m gonna go look around in the back―or nap, or something,” before awkwardly shuffling away. He has only just approached the end of the row when he hears a scuffle of hurried feet behind him. 

“Zack, _wait_.” 

Heedful of keeping his expression in check, Zack turns around, only to startle as Cloud clutches his forearm upon reaching him, eyes inordinately wild. “Whoa, um, what’s up, sunshine?” 

“Sorry, it’s just―” Cloud glances down and promptly releases Zack’s arm, his harried expression clearing. “Just… Zack, the last time you did that was before you almost died.” 

For a moment, Zack stands between a brink and the end of a rifle, but, in the next, he finds himself once more in the nave of a sunlit church, safe and unharmed, albeit strangely unbalanced. “I didn’t though,” he argues, blinking away the vision until his breathing evens out and the feeling dissipates. “And I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.” 

Cloud narrows his eyes. “Not until the next time you decide to sacrifice yourself, you mean.” 

_You don’t miss a thing, do you, sunshine?_

“Well, if that’s the case,” Zack exclaims, propping his fists against his hips and leaning forward, “you’re just gonna have to save me again!” Then, before Cloud can wriggle away, Zack reaches out with both hands, makes an utter mess of his hair, and swiftly retreats.

Chuckling, Zack decides that he does, indeed, deserve the swears Cloud flings in his wake.

\--- 

If the back rooms of the church were intended to suit a specific purpose―living quarters for the staff, for instance―then they do not reflect this. In fact, it would be more accurate to call the space a single chamber as a result of a gigantic, metal monstrosity jutting in from the outside. Zack guesses that it must have been a support column at one point―until it broke off and speared through not only the wall, but also the floor of the second level. Even in the growing twilight, he can see all the way to the vaulted ceiling. It leaves him cursing Shinra under his breath. The slums are already a dangerous place to reside in: its citizens should not have to watch out for debris falling on them in addition to everything else.

The stairs, at least, are mostly intact. Should they need to make a quick escape, they could leave through the roof, even if, Zack realizes with a squint, they might need to cross the metal spire to reach it.

“These are empty,” Cloud calls from inspecting a couple of barrels tucked into the corner.

“Honestly, sunshine, I kind of expected that,” Zack admits and then laughs when Cloud lifts his head from the rim of the barrel to give him a deadpan look. 

Giving the space up as a lost cause, Zack ambles out to the nave and darts a glance at what he has deemed their corner, tempted to take another nap. When Zack had mentioned doing so to Cloud earlier, he had spoken solely to escape the awkward situation, but voicing the possibility of sleep must have alerted his body to the need. Exhausted, he surrendered without hesitation, expecting Cloud to prod him should anything come up. In the end, he woke only a couple of hours later to a rapid heartbeat and disturbingly empty arms, feeling as though he never rested at all. He also cannot imagine that it helped that he made no effort to be comfortable, so inured to wearing his armor even while sleeping that it had not crossed his mind to remove it. Something about that strikes him as profoundly sad. 

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Zack makes his way to the door on the other side of the altar, scouring his memory for any indication of where it leads. When he draws a blank, he shrugs and reaches out for the handle, which gives way after a bit of jostling to reveal a much smaller chamber. Although emptier than the previous space, it harbors a far more exciting prospect: a sink standing in the center of the room. Well, Zack suspects that calling it something so trivial might count as a sacrilege. Given its delicate construction―its porcelain, scallop-shaped basin held by a metal base of curlicues―it must be a font for holy water. 

When Zack senses the loaded silence hovering behind his shoulder, he asks, “What do you think? Is it wrong to drink holy water?” Without waiting for an answer, Zack steps up to the basin and begins to fiddle with the tarnished, silver tap. Valiantly, the faucet sputters out a few squirts of water before dying a hero’s death.

Zack closes the tap with a huff. “The gods have spoken.” 

Having hung back, Cloud leaves the doorway to join him and proceeds to scrutinize their dilemma, trying the tap for himself. Again, the faucet sputters weakly. Instead of stemming the flow, Cloud twists the knob to full blast and steps away from the basin. “Leave that on,” he warns. 

Curious, Zack watches as Cloud slowly creeps farther into the room, one ear angled toward the ground, seemingly listening. After a few moments, he stops, crouches, and places his cheek against the floor. 

“Found something?” 

“I think so,” Cloud murmurs. “Help me with this.” 

Together, they carefully pry back the wood floorboard, revealing a crawl space with a length of piping within. To Zack, it looks perfectly innocuous, but Cloud examines it with an undercurrent of triumph. Distracted by the rare expression, Zack completely misses the church’s front doors opening, but he does catch the sound of small wheels rolling across uneven ground. 

“Hellooo!” Aerith calls in a lilting tone. 

“Hey!” Zack bounces back to his feet, pretends like he meant to sway upon standing upright, and rushes to the open door before Cloud can call him out on the near fall. “We’re just in here,” he adds unnecessarily, hanging on to the jamb and putting all his weight on it. “Oh, whoa! You kept that?”

Aerith, a staff strapped to her back, is tugging along the flower cart, laden with supplies, that they made together so many years ago. Although it carries marks of use, it appears well cared for, and Zack cannot help but smile at the fact. His younger self was sure eager to please, he thinks, remembering the trouble he went through to build it to her liking. 

“Of course I did!” Aerith answers brightly. “I always use it when I have a bigger stock―or when I need to lug some things to a couple of lazy soldiers,” she adds slyly, leaving the cart by the flower bed before strolling up to Zack. “Oh, you found the water basin?” She peeks around him, leaning sideways. “I haven’t been able to get that to work in a while. It’s made watering the flowers a real pain.” 

Zack cranes his head over his shoulder, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cloud rises from the floor and walks to the basin. 

“Do you have some tools I could borrow?” Cloud asks. Delighted, Zack turns all the way around to see the blond shutting off the tap. 

“Yes, I can bring them over in the morning,” Aerith answers, eyes creasing, and then beckons them back toward the nave. “For now, let me show you what I brought.” 

As they rifle through the cart, Zack quickly realizes that Aerith went above and beyond to accommodate them. While he does spot the requested soap and offered sewing kit, there is also an assortment of goods he definitely had not asked for. Just from a cursory glance, he spots two blankets, a towel, a battery-powered lantern―which Aerith switches on with a flourish―a few jars of water, a pot of something that smells enticing, and what Zack suspects might be a few gil tucked away into a pouch. 

“Aerith, I think you might be a saint,” Zack mutters, sharing a glance with Cloud, who looks equally torn between discomfort and gratitude. 

“Oh, nonsense. Basic decency doesn’t qualify you for sainthood! Anyway, it’s the least I can do since I can’t open my home to you. And―” Darting a stern look Zack’s way, Aerith drops down to the cart and starts sorting through the blankets. “―before you go blubbering about paying me back, I already had most of these things.” 

Zack tilts his head, eyeing the pile. “Sure you did. Still, _thank you_ ,” he says, braiding as much sincerity into the words as possible. Cloud echoes him, tone soft. 

Not pausing in her search, Aerith glances up at both of them and smiles sweetly before removing something from the blankets. “Here we go. I didn’t own any jackets that were big enough, but I found these in the market for cheap. They’re not much, but…” Shrugging, she passes the stack to Zack, who unfolds it to reveal two simple, short-sleeved shirts. 

“The blue one is smaller,” Aerith adds helpfully before Zack has a chance to ask Cloud whether he prefers blue or black. 

“Ha!” Zack balls up the blue shirt and tosses it at Cloud’s face. “Your plan to get me into tight clothing has been thwarted, Aerith,” he quips, ignoring Cloud’s expletives. 

“Dummy,” Aerith says simply, shaking her head. “Here, take this, too.” She holds out, of all things, a black wristwatch, a line of green numbers glowing on its face. “I know it seems silly, but it’s harder to keep track of time down here. Thought you might appreciate it.” 

Zack does, is the thing. In the wilderness, he could easily approximate the hour by the sun or moon, but it is far trickier down here in the gloom, the beams of sunlight slipping into the church notwithstanding. He takes the watch with a grateful nod, pauses, and then wordlessly hands it to Cloud with a meaningful look. Cloud wandered away and found himself elsewhere, losing minutes―if anyone could use a watch, it is him. Seemingly agreeing, Cloud frowns but dutifully buckles it to his wrist. 

That sorted, Zack turns back to Aerith, who has since pulled out a couple of bowls from the cart and is busying herself with the pot. “I suppose you just had two spare blankets lying around?” he asks skeptically. 

Aerith just hums and lifts the lid, letting loose a billow of steam. Zack’s mouth fills with saliva, his stomach wagging at the prospect of food. He has not touched their stash of bread since earlier, too accustomed to rationing supplies. Beside him, Cloud shifts impatiently, fingers digging into his thighs with―Zack notes mournfully―palpable hunger. 

“It’s mostly broth,” Aerith explains, “with some vegetables and egg whites.” She flicks her gaze up at Zack before focusing on dipping a bowl into the pot. “Easy on the stomach.” 

“Appreciated,” Zack says, thankful that she clued into their situation and is taking it in stride. 

As though reading Zack’s mind, Aerith serves Cloud first, handing him the bowl with care, before putting one together for Zack. It takes everything in him not to snatch it out of her hands like a rabid animal, eager to dive in headfirst, but he manages to accept it calmly before bringing it to his lips. The taste, savory with a perfect hint of salty, instantly overwhelms him, traveling from his tongue to the very tips of his extremities. Just one gulp leaves him feeling stronger; he would not be shocked if Aerith had laced the broth with a healing potion.

“You aren’t having any?” Cloud asks, mouth barely raised from the lip of his bowl.

With an unimpressed look, Aerith shakes her head. “I’ve eaten. Besides, I made this for _you_ , so eat up.” 

“Yeah, sunshine,” Zack nags, nudging at Cloud and almost upending their bowls, “don’t insult Aerith’s great cooking. Eat it all.” Just in case, he shoots a surreptitious glance at Cloud’s share before concluding that it should not make him sick if he downs the whole thing.

“I wasn’t,” Cloud grumbles but immediately quiets, occupied with his soup. 

Aerith giggles and waves a benevolent hand before rising to her feet. “You’re both welcome.” 

“You’re going?” Zack asks, lowering his bowl in anticipation.

Aerith nods and slips the staff from her back into her hand. “I need to get back home before the monsters get too hungry. And no,” she adds, eyeing Zack starting to shift onto his knees with exasperation, “I don’t need an escort.” 

“You sure?” Zack plops back down, secretly thankful for the chance to rest. 

“Completely. I’ve been living down here all my life. I’ll see you two in the morning, okay? You can keep this until then,” she says with a smile, pointing at the cart. Then, before Zack can respond, Aerith steps over to his side, dips down, and kisses the top of his head. 

Zack blinks. By the time he gathers himself, Aerith is already halfway down the aisle. “Yeah, see you,” he calls weakly, to which she gives a friendly backward wave. 

Determined not to feel awkward, Zack glances at Cloud, whose nose is so far into his bowl that he is at risk of drowning. “You want some bread?” he offers, realizing that Cloud will only notice that something is off if Zack reveals that it is.

“Please. Just a little though.”

“You got it,” Zack says and then crawls over to the satchel Aerith left for them this morning.

The rest of the meal goes by in silence, both men too engrossed in their food to chitchat. Zack does not even need to remind Cloud to eat slowly―as soon as the immediate hunger is sated, it grows harder to fill their bellies without discomfort. Zack only just manages to finish his own portion, but Cloud leaves the rest of his bread for later. It is not ideal, but Zack knows it is safer to pace oneself.

Once they are finished, Zack grabs both bowls and one of the jars of water and heads into the “washroom.” At the sink, he splashes some water into the bowls―just enough to rinse out the clinging broth―and then watches as it slowly drains. Tilting his head, he reaches into the basin and pushes down on the metal jutting out above the flange. As he suspected, something pops up from behind the faucet as the drain plugs up. With a happy hum, Zack pours out a generous amount of water into the basin before leaving the chamber. 

Out in the nave, Cloud appears to be busying himself with sorting through the supplies, kneeling by the pew closest to their corner. So far, he has placed the glowing lantern on the bench, as well as the pot and the remaining half of the bread. Heading his way, Zack first stops off at the cart, shifting the bowls to one hand as he grabs the towel, soap, and the blue shirt with the other. He wanders over to the pew, deposits the bowls by the pot, and then thrusts the pile at Cloud, who recoils at the sudden intrusion. 

“Washroom’s yours!” Zack sing-songs, pointing a thumb behind him for added emphasis. Expression blank, Cloud looks between the pile and the washroom a few times before tentatively accepting the offerings and leaving to get himself cleaned up.

That settled, Zack grabs one of the blankets and lugs it over to their corner. It is not as thick as he would have liked, but it will do as a pallet. Given that they have been sleeping on the unforgiving ground these past months, he has absolutely no complaints―not to mention that the second blanket will keep out any chill the Mako cannot quell. He truly does not know what he has done to deserve Aerith. 

Zack is just about ready to double back for said blanket when he catches sight of himself, still adorned in armor. Not willing to repeat the results of his earlier nap, he unbuckles the straps to remove his pauldrons and the waist cuirass. That done, he kneels to remove his boots and socks. Along their journey, he took every opportunity to air out his feet, too traumatized by the horror stories his fellow soldiers had spread about the consequences of keeping one’s boots on for days on end. Unfortunately, out in the wilderness, it had been often either too cold or Shinra had been too near to risk it. Now that they have a semblance of safety, Zack is going to clutch onto every opportunity he can find for a taste of normalcy. 

Still, loath to be caught unawares, Zack leans over and tugs the Buster Sword until it lies within reach of the makeshift bed. As he adjusts the weapon’s position, he hears the click of a door opening. Glancing up, he encounters a bleary-eyed but much cleaner-looking Cloud, all soft around the edges without his armor. The blue fabric complements his eyes, Zack realizes with no lack of wonder. 

“Your turn,” Cloud mutters through a yawn.

Nodding, Zack grabs his own change of clothes and heads into the washroom, nudging the door closed behind him. Without the lantern’s light, he can only just make out the outline of the basin, but he manages not to trip as he creeps over, one hand raised to catch the brim. Upon reaching it, he wriggles out of his shirt, eager to be rid of it. While his pants are salvageable―despite needing a thorough scrubbing―the uniform top is, by all accounts, ruined. Even if he made the effort to mend it, the stains would garner too much attention, as would the way it screams SOLDIER. His armor, too, is a flashing sign; he cannot go around parading in it underneath the Plate, let alone above it. Although it will be unpleasant to walk around thus exposed, he will not likely have a choice―not if he wants to protect their cover.

Stifling his own yawn, Zack makes quick work of slewing off the dried blood and days of sweat. As he runs a hand along his skin, he notes the lack of bullet scars, no doubt a result of Cloud’s swift thinking, before he forcibly casts the observation aside and refocuses on washing. Once he finishes, reeling at what a difference soap and a fresh shirt can make, he takes the towel out with him with the intention of drying it outside. 

Back in the nave, Cloud sits on the pew bearing their supplies, pouch in one hand and a handful of coins in another. “After all that, she left us some money.” He bites his lip, brows furrowing. “Twenty gil.”

Caught between delight and frustration, Zack shakes his head with a wry smile and hangs the used towel over the back of the pew. “I thought as much. We’ll pay her back later, I promise. For now―” He breaks off, yawning widely. “―let’s just sleep.”

Expecting Cloud to grab the second blanket, Zack walks over to their corner, his joints threatening to buckle, and drops down onto the pallet. The blanket twists under his knees, so he busies himself with smoothing it out, absently listening to the telltale shuffling behind him. When he finally raises his head, confused as to what is taking Cloud so long, he freezes, eyes drawn to the blond spreading a blanket out by the flower bed, alarmingly out of reach. 

“What are you doing?” Zack demands, horrified. 

Cloud shoots him a quick look, frowning. “Preparing for bed?” 

Zack pauses, his brain making a few rapid-fire calculations. Cloud, as far as Zack understands it, has not been lucid throughout most of their journey together. Therefore, Cloud would not necessarily expect them to sleep side by side and might, in fact, be uncomfortable with doing so. Through a haze, Zack recalls clinging onto him the night before, but he cannot say whether Cloud requited the embrace. 

The problem, however, is that, if Cloud is prone to losing time, then what is to say that he will not wander away again in the middle of the night? And, if Zack is not nearby, then what is the likelihood that he would notice before something happened to him? No, even if it might test the boundaries of Cloud’s patience, Zack knows that he cannot make that gamble. Cloud being stolen away from him has featured in far too many of his nightmares to risk it. 

Thus, Zack plasters a playful grin onto his face and reaches for the first excuse he can think of. “ _Sunshine_ ,” he whines, “you’ve spoiled me for _months_ with nightly cuddles! Are you really gonna deprive me of that?” 

Cloud lets out a quiet laugh and sits back on his heels. “If I knew you were going to cry about it, I wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” To Zack’s befuddled relief, he immediately bundles the blanket into his arms and proceeds to walk over, switching off the lantern on the way.

“You know me,” Zack drawls. Crossing his arms under his head, he plops onto the pallet, grinning at how easy it was to coax Cloud back to his side. “Crying until I get what I want.” 

“That doesn’t sound like you at all,” Cloud mutters. He plonks the second blanket on top of Zack, who groans when it lands on his face but does not tarry in straightening it out, lest Cloud change his mind. As soon as Zack settles by the wall, Cloud crawls under the covers and shifts onto his side, facing the room. 

“Sure it does―I complain all the time,” Zack quips before scooting toward Cloud. For all his fears, Zack hesitates upon reaching out, knowing that it would be kinder to maintain a distance between them―kinder to himself as well. After all, the last time Zack touched him without warning, Cloud tensed and jerked away; he would rather not revisit that experience.

Then, just as Zack decides to remain where he is, he senses movement: a flash of green out of the corner of his eye. When he raises his gaze, Cloud’s back faces him, but Zack is certain that he did not imagine the Mako glow. Cautiously, he begins to slip an arm around Cloud’s waist, granting him enough time to scurry away should he wish to.

Instead, Cloud relaxes into the embrace and proceeds to curl both arms into his chest, trapping Zack’s hand underneath them. Overwhelmed, Zack screws his eyes shut, feeling as though the air has been punched from his lungs. This moment is incomparable to all the previous times they have shared a sleeping space. It speaks nothing of slack limbs or nearly imperceptible inhales. This, Zack realizes with wonder, is what he fought for. 

“Night, Zack.”

“G’night.” In the cloaking darkness of the church, Zack nestles his forehead against the nape of Cloud’s neck, closes his eyes, and breathes.

He sleeps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The epigraph is a direct quote from a conversation between Zack and Cissnei in Crisis Core, after he escapes Nibelheim. Zack’s quiet, laconic reply breaks my heart every time.  
> \- I borrowed “sunshine” from my other FF7 fic. You’ll have to take this pet name from my cold, dead, gay hands.  
> \- In case there is any disconnect, I should point out that I used the CC Mako eyes look, i.e. a noticeable combination of both blue and green. I should also note that I don’t headcanon SOLDIERs as being able to see in the dark. Since nocturnal vision has to do with the structure of the eye rather than with its iris glowing, I decided to forgo that. And I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know if Mako eyes legitimately glow in canon, but I’ll be damned if I miss out on the mental image of Cloud looking like a feral cat raiding dumpsters in an alleyway.  
> \- I completely made up the thing about the gates to Midgar locking and unlocking based on the time of day, but Cloud got inside Midgar SOMEHOW, so this is as plausible as the next theory. It’s not like he could have fought his way in―not in his condition, anyway.  
> \- Realistically, Zack probably would have needed a phoenix down to survive, but the likelihood of Cloud finding one in time seemed like a stretch even to me. In game mechanics speak, let’s say that, thanks to Cloud’s last-minute intervention, Zack was at one hit point rather than zero.  
> \- Characterizing Cloud was a challenge, especially because I had to rely so much on his body language to express his feelings (made all the more harder since the story is told from Zack’s perspective). So much of his personality at the beginning of the original game is a direct result of trauma from Zack’s death, while his default manner in Advent Children is hard to gauge through the cloak of grief/depression. Ultimately, I ended up with a Cloud somewhere in between CC and AC: still capable of expressing happiness, but far grumpier than before. Fortunately, writing Cloud became much easier after I realized that he has the personality of a cat.  
> \- I’ll admit, Cloud humming the chocobo theme song is probably out of character, but I don’t care. I love the concept of chocobos instantly reminding Zack of Cloud. (And I also love these birds very much. Fight me.)  
> \- Zack wonders if Cloud has combat fatigue, which is an outdated term that was used during WWII to describe symptoms of what we now call PTSD. I purposely used this term to highlight that Shinra does not spend much of its time and resources to ensure the mental well-being of its soldiers. Shocking, that.  
> \- Apparently, in CC, Kunsel emails Zack to tell him that he visited Aerith after Zack disappeared. When he found out that one of the wheels on her flower cart was broken, he offered to fix it, but she refused, saying that she was waiting for Zack to return so that he could do it (OW). Since I needed the cart for narrative purposes, I’ve decided that Aerith eventually fixes it by herself. Character development-wise, it seems fitting.  
> \- There is Only One Bed; Subverted: Both parties very much want to share the bed.  
> \- My favorite version of Zack’s theme is “With Pride” from CC, which should say a lot about how I characterize him.


	2. Chapter 2

Zack wakes to the thought that, for once, he can remain resting for as long as he desires. There is no one actively hunting them, and they are as safe as they could possibly be in a city overseen by their enemies. Cloud, too, is sleeping peacefully where he lies tucked under his arm, his breaths deep and steady. Smiling, Zack nudges his face into the short, blond hairs at his nape, not minding the tickle. He is delightfully comfortable, the blanket having trapped in the heat their bodies produced during the night. 

He allows himself to surface at a languid pace, no longer propelled by a need to maintain constant movement. It is inexplicably satisfying, the warmth and familiar scent lulling him into a foreign sense of serenity. They never really had a chance to lie together like this before, he realizes. Not in a way that was not also fraught with an undercurrent of danger―and never when they were both _lucid_. 

He huffs, frustrated at the nervous thought breaking through the calm of his morning. _Would_ Cloud mind Zack clinging to him so earnestly? It seems foolish to shake him awake just to ask. Besides, Cloud was quick to wander back to his side last night―and even appeared to invite Zack closer―so perhaps he would allow him this much. 

_Maybe we’re both starved._

Zack does not wish to jostle Cloud to check the actual time, but it still feels relatively early―at least, early for a couple of exhausted fugitives recovering from a long trek. Judging by the angle of the pale sunlight filtering in through the eastern windows, it is not yet midday. Regardless of how pleasant it would be to sleep in just a little while longer, his soldier instincts kick in at the sight, urging him not to waste the precious free time. 

Thus, after carefully extricating himself from Cloud, Zack rises from the pallet and tucks the blanket back around the blond. Treading lightly, he heads down the aisle and nips outside to quickly relieve himself before heading back to the washroom to clean up. It is not an ideal situation, but it is already a step up from the little they had these past months―and if Cloud can fix the basin, then they will not even need to worry about rationing their water.

Refreshed, Zack exits the washroom with a spring in his step and proceeds to search for the best place for a bit of exercise, eager to fall back into his old morning routine. While on the run, he had neither the time nor need for leisurely training―in fact, he cannot remember when he last went out of his way to keep up his strength. His treadmill has been the wilds of Gaia, his weights a broadsword and a catatonic friend. Before, he never would have thought of exercise as an indulgent activity, but neither did he expect his employer to brand him as MIA and experiment on him. Times change. 

Deciding that the space before the lilies would suit him best, Zack pads over and settles into a round of warm-up stretches followed by floor exercises. Usually teeming with rambling thoughts, he forces himself to keep a clear mind, concentrating solely on counting and breathing at the right intervals. After some time, he glances up midway through a push-up and promptly loses his count as Cloud joins him with a shy smile. Loath to break the morning quiet, Zack returns the smile and restarts at “one.”

Precisely half an hour later, Zack finds himself lying on his back on the floor, reeling in shock. He cannot be the same person that protected Cloud across miles and miles of hostile land. That man, he thinks, had never been this _weak_. Willing his racing heart to slow, he covers his face behind his hands and inhales a long breath. So much for calling exercise an “indulgence.” 

“You okay?” asks Cloud, who tapped out a while ago―after Zack proved himself as the champion of squats―and has since retreated to their corner.

“Peachy,” Zack replies after a moment, unable to keep the strain from his muffled tone. 

“Don’t push yourself so hard,” Cloud urges, sounding closer. _You nearly died_ , is what he does not say.

“I’m fine,” Zack insists before removing his hands and sitting upright. Cloud stands not two feet nearby, his hair nigh on ethereal in the morning light. Zack smiles up at him, his frustration instantly melting at the lovely sight. “Anyway, I need to keep up my strength. Shinra won’t get the drop on me a second time!” When Cloud stares in lieu of a reply, Zack quietly adds, “I really am fine. It’ll be easier tomorrow, and even easier the day after that.”

Zack cannot read any of the veiled expressions that flicker across Cloud’s face, but the blond eventually settles on a neutral one and holds out an arm toward him. Relieved, Zack wraps his fingers around Cloud’s forearm and lets himself be dragged upward. 

“Ready to eat?” Cloud asks, thankfully changing the subject.

“In a bit,” Zack replies, darting a speculative glance at his pants, which he should no doubt stitch up if he plans to trek up to the city today. Although they have a small pile of gil thanks to Aerith, he cannot dally in searching for work, even just for the sake of paying back her kindness―not to mention that he has already begun compiling a list of things he wants to add to their stash. “Aerith will probably show up any minute, and I want to fix my pants before she does. Do you mind if I―?”

When Cloud’s brows knit in confusion, Zack leans down and pointedly tugs at the fabric, baring the holes that even a gymnast would have trouble mending without shedding the pants. 

“Oh. No, go ahead.” 

Saluting in thanks, Zack heads over to the pew containing their supplies, intent on finding the sewing kit. “I know I should probably wash these first before trying to fix them, but it’s not like I can walk around with holey pants.”

Following at his heels, Cloud mutters, “Might start a fashion though,” and begins to sort through their remaining food.

Zack snorts, too occupied with rifling through the satchel to formulate a proper response. “Don’t wait to eat,” he orders absently, humming in triumph when he finally unearths the sewing kit from the bottom of the bag.

“I’ll eat as soon as you drink,” Cloud grumbles, appearing at his elbow with one of their jars of water. 

“Oh, um. Right. Thanks, sunshine.” 

Pocketing the sewing kit, Zack accepts the water and wonders just when he learned to block out his body’s needs so readily. He imagines that it might have begun sometime when a lack of water had manifested into a low-grade headache that would not cease. Even now, it keens as a phantom pain, registering in his periphery just enough to be a bother. Determined to smother it once and for all, Zack lifts the jar to his mouth, but only allows himself a few gulps, knowing that more might make him sick.

It is not so unfamiliar, this act of denial. 

“Zack?”

Lowering the jar, Zack raises an eyebrow at the odd look on Cloud’s face. It does not hold the vagueness that he has come to fear, but its blankness seems contrived, like it would shatter if Zack were to come closer. “What’s up?” 

After a moment’s silence, Cloud slowly shakes his head and turns away to fiddle with the bowls. “Never mind.” 

Zack tilts his head, considering. As much as he wishes to pull Cloud in close and lance the words out of him with a hair ruffle, he suspects that it would only result in the blond clamming up further, or even withdrawing completely. And, while his curiosity begs to be satisfied, Zack has spent far too many months listening to imagined responses to risk being outright ignored for the rest of the morning, if not day.

Thus, Zack shrugs and then wanders over to their blankets, slipping the sewing kit out of his pocket. With only a cursory glance in Cloud’s direction, he kicks off his boots and tugs off his pants before dropping to sit cross-legged on the pallet. Although soldiers are near strangers to privacy, he cannot stifle the hint of awkwardness stripping down in front of Cloud evokes, but he can hardly control his emotions. He can, however, control his actions, so while he does not suspiciously pull a blanket over his legs, he does artfully drape the pants over his lap. 

The shyness, if anything, confirms a great deal, especially considering that he cannot recall the last time he ever truly felt said emotion. Zack shelves this thought away.

Preoccupied with choosing a needle and thread, Zack does not look over when Cloud, bowls of cold broth in hand, makes his way over and carefully crouches down beside him. In his periphery, Cloud puts one bowl aside and leans against the wall, raising the soup to his mouth as he shifts to watch. Self-conscious despite himself, Zack licks the end of the black thread and pinches it between his left thumb and forefinger so that it is just visible. Then, he lifts the needle and pushes its eye against the speck of black until the thread slips past and he can pull it through easily. 

Cloud emits a little surprised noise. “Never seen it done that way.” 

“My mom taught me. Never got the hang of the knot though,” Zack admits sheepishly, reluctant to even try while his friend is watching so closely. 

“Give it to me.” Cloud gestures with one hand as he steals a sip from his bowl before depositing it by his hip. Careful not to poke him, Zack transfers the needle over and observes as Cloud wraps the end of the thread around his forefinger a few times, rolls the loop dexterously off the finger with his thumb, and tightens the resulting knot. After a brief examination, he returns it with a small smile. 

“Thanks.” Zack grins, enamored of the domesticity of this little world they have found themselves in. He leans forward and gets to work while Cloud tucks back into his meal. Despite being out of practice, Zack does a decent job of mending the fabric, even if his stitches are a touch sloppy. They at least succeed in keeping the garment from falling apart, so he concludes that they will suffice. After every fixed tear, Zack wordlessly passes off the thread to Cloud, who knots it again without complaint. 

It is strange: for all that Zack nearly lost his mind babbling incessantly to an unresponsive Cloud, he does not mind this particular quiet. Silence too often manifests as awkward lulls in conversation that Zack feels compelled to fill, but Cloud does not strike him as someone who would judge him, much less care, if he did not have a retort to every single little word. The realization comes with a freeing sort of relief that he never expected to desire. 

Not even Aerith, for all her sweetness, could level Zack so completely. Whereas Aerith inspired bravado, Cloud inspires gentleness. 

_Maybe I really did come back different_. 

“Is that the last one?” Cloud asks, drawing Zack away from his inner musings. “Your soup is getting cold. Colder,” he adds dryly. 

With a contemplative hum, Zack holds out the pants in front of him and twists them this way and that, searching for any holes he missed. “I think so.” Zack nudges at Cloud’s shoulder with his own, shaking the fabric cheerfully. “Would you look at that? Put the two of us together, and you get one competent adult!” 

“You mean, one that actually remembers to take care of himself?” Cloud replies with a blank look. 

Unwilling to accept this attack on his―their?―characters, Zack opens his mouth to retort…and immediately stutters to a stop at a knock on the front doors. In the panic between said knock and the slow arc of the door opening, Zack manages to slouch to the floor, wriggle into his pants, and brain himself against the stone wall, not necessarily in that order. 

Clutching onto the back of his head with a groan, Zack wonders whether Cloud is suddenly having some sort of fit, but when he rolls onto his side and squints open an eye, the traitor is merely shaking with silent laughter. 

“Goodness!” Aerith exclaims from down the aisle. “Should I be concerned?”

“Nope!” Zack yells, voice pitched high. “Everything is fine!” 

“Zack hit his head while putting his pants back on,” Cloud says because he is a _dirty snitch_. 

“Oh, poor thing,” Aerith coos as she nears, her laughter bleeding into her imitation of concern.

With an embarrassed huff, Zack gingerly sits up and finishes buttoning himself up. “I hope you don’t treat all war veterans like this. Not everyone survived the Battle of Missing Pants, you know.” 

“I’m sure.” Brows raised, Aerith drops a basket by the lilies before coming over to the pew with a toolbox and a wrapped parcel. Her gaze, he realizes with a start, is thoughtful― _suspicious_ , even. 

“The troops were victorious, of course,” Zack adds quickly, determined to explain why he was not wearing pants in the first place. “The holes have all been, ah, defeated. Sewn up.” Even as Aerith’s features relax, Zack cannot help but dart a guilty look Cloud’s way, but the latter simply rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath before pushing a bowl into Zack’s chest. 

“Just eat your soup, Lieutenant,” he orders with a long-suffering expression.

Later, when they are as satiated as can be and Aerith is tending to her flowers, choosing blooms to sell above the Plate while Cloud looks on, Zack drops down onto a pew, crosses his arms, and _thinks_. 

When he first came to Midgar, painfully young and blinded by tales of glory, there were a couple of months before his induction into the military wherein he was forced to pick up odd jobs to stay afloat. He had even delivered a few express packages despite the risk of unknowingly carting substances for the denizens of Midgar’s underbelly. Largely, he preferred restaurants, as cooks always had dishes in need of washing or potatoes in need of peeling. Zack smiles, remembering one place in particular whose owner, a fellow native of Gongaga, had always been kind to him when he needed the gil. 

“I wonder if Binh’s restaurant is still around,” Zack thinks aloud. 

“Are you planning dinner?” Aerith asks, voice distracted. Sitting cross-legged beside her, Cloud shakes his head before focusing on him. Zack does not miss the way Cloud glances at his wristwatch, but the action neither confirms nor denies a loss of time, so, for now, he lets him be.

“No, I― Well, _maybe_. I was thinking about where to find work above the Plate.” 

Aerith hums thoughtfully and plucks one of the lilies before placing it inside her basket. “You are always welcome to sell flowers with me, if you like.” 

Zack laughs, remembering all too well when he last tried to sell flowers. His enthusiasm is more likely to scare off customers than draw them in. He would rather not once more ruin Aerith’s business. “Thanks for the offer, but remember last time? People won’t want to buy flowers from me.”

“You’d be surprised,” Cloud mutters. 

Zack jerks his head up, expression reflecting the offhand remark. “Why’s that?” he asks, to which Cloud shrugs and fiddles with his watch, seemingly unaware of the scrutiny he has garnered. Even Aerith is watching, Zack notes. 

“You could just charm your way into a sale.” 

Zack blinks, parts his mouth, and blurts out, “You think I’m charming?” before promptly screaming―internally―at his impulsive response. Aerith is _right there_. 

Cloud, in turn, looks up and startles at the two pairs of eyes aimed at him. Then, just as quickly, his caught expression smooths away, betraying nothing of his thoughts. “Only when you’re not trying,” he replies, his voice even―and Zack proceeds to curl into himself, pretending like that did not hurt. A backhanded compliment is not wholly an insult, but it is as sharp as one. Still, he no doubt deserves it after his little slip of the tongue. 

“Well, uh, by that logic,” Zack hedges, stammering despite himself, “I shouldn’t be selling flowers at all.” 

“No,” Cloud agrees, sounding tired, “I guess not.” 

Zack does not know what to do with the ensuing silence. He suspects that he lost several threads to this conversation, which is not an unfamiliar feeling, but one that has no place in his interactions with Cloud. Eager to be rid of the foul taste of disquiet, Zack casts around for a distraction, only to land on the wrapped parcel Aerith brought with her.

Lifting it into the air, he asks, “So, what’s this?” 

“Oh, that?” Aerith, too, sounds relieved at the break of tension. “Just more bread and some hard-boiled eggs. Did you finish the soup?” 

“We did,” Cloud responds quietly, staring into his lap. “It was delicious, thank you.”

“I’m glad,” Aerith says with a sweet smile, directing it at Cloud despite his inattention, and then catches Zack’s eye before flicking her gaze at the blond. Zack shrugs and shakes his head hurriedly, eyes wide. His instinctive method for soothing Cloud’s melancholy has been to either give his friend space or distract him, but he has not discovered a surefire way yet. He knows how to react to hero worship or sparks of insecurity―this fragility is still too untested.

“Well, in that case,” Aerith starts, giving Zack a shrewd look, “I’m going to grab the pot. And if I don’t put aside that cart, I’m sure to forget it later.” Zack suspects that this might be a lie, but he is not-so-secretly thankful when she stands from her spot by the flower bed and shuffles over to the pew, leaving a clear route to Cloud. 

“Do you really think you can fix that sink, Cloud?” Aerith asks as Zack rises from the pew and walks over to him, coming to a stop at his side but not daring to reach out. “It would be lovely to not have to lug water over every couple of days.” 

“I think so,” Cloud replies, casting a brief, unreadable glance up at Zack. “Mom and I mostly kept to ourselves. We got used to fixing things around the house without help.” 

“That’s good,” Zack says, half to himself. “At least you’ll have something to work on while we’re out.” As soon as the last word leaves his mouth, Cloud nearly bowls him over as he jumps to his feet, and Zack is forced to grab his shoulder to avoid tipping over. Selfishly, he leaves his hand where it landed.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cloud demands, eyes glinting with betrayal. “I’m not going with you?” 

Zack stares, failing to respond in the face of Cloud’s anger. He should feel ashamed, he knows, for making this decision for him, but the fact of the matter is that…Zack is terrified of bringing Cloud anywhere within the bounds of Shinra’s headquarters. Letting him out of his sight is difficult enough―this would be unthinkable. On his darker days, Zack feared that Cloud would never again regain consciousness after everything Shinra did to him, so what would happen if they found him again? Would they simply kill him? Run more experiments on him? Could Cloud even survive another dose of Mako? Zack will never find out, for, if it comes to that, he will have already died. 

Of course, if Cloud is prone to losing time, then leaving him alone might not be the best option either, but the blond never did manage to wander far the few times he briefly shrugged off his catatonia. No, he will be better off here, in the church. Besides, the less Cloud is seen with him above the Plate, the safer he is, as Zack is likelier to be recognized up there. Since years have passed, he hopes that no one but his closest friends― _Kunsel_ , he thinks with a pang―would remember him, but it pays to be careful. 

So, plastering on a smile, Zack quips, “Hey, someone has to hold down the fort, right?” and then winces when it only serves to darken Cloud’s expression. “Sorry. I just―” Throwing a nervous glance Aerith’s way, Zack lowers his voice. “I don’t like that you lost time yesterday, Cloud. I don’t want that happening up there―not with Shinra’s agents around.” 

“It hasn’t happened since then,” Cloud insists. “I wouldn’t get in the way.”

“That’s―” Zack throws all caution to the wind and places both hands on Cloud’s shoulders, ducking to stare him down. “That’s not even remotely the concern. Cloud, listen to me: you are _never_ going to be in my way,” he proclaims with a shake, prompting, to his delight, a little smile to curl at the corner of Cloud’s mouth. “Just, for now, please stay here until we’re sure you’re okay.”

Cloud huffs, but the storm, for now, seems to have abated. “Fine, but only until then.” 

“ _Thank you_.” Relieved beyond measure, Zack twists to rest one arm along Cloud’s shoulders and begins leading them to the pew. Aerith, bless her, is blithely checking over the flower cart as though nothing unusual has occurred. “And don’t worry about dinner―I’ll find something.” 

“Take the gil with you, then,” Cloud mutters. “And be careful.”

“Course. I’ll return in one piece. Remember what I said?” Zack slips away, reaches for the toolbox, and holds it out to Cloud, who takes it tentatively. “I’ll never abandon you.” 

“Okay,” Cloud replies, staring down at the toolbox, “I’ll be here.” He glances up at Zack through his lashes―and that is not fair at all. Weak to Cloud’s gaze, Zack lets his own trace along the slope of his cheek, but only because he could hardly excuse his hand the same misdemeanor. 

The _something_ clamors for more, but this, coupled with a hefty dose of guilt, will tide him over.

\---

Zack frowns at the little card, turning it this way and that as he struggles not to sway with the movement of the train. The card’s design eerily resembles that of the pass he had a few years back. He supposes that being MIA does not guarantee returning to a complete overhaul of the past, but encountering something so familiar feels as surreal as it would have been otherwise. Still, perhaps he should not be so surprised: the slums they had passed to reach the Sector 7 station had been as depressing as ever, save for Sector 6’s, which had simply been more sordid. 

“Are you sure your mom won’t mind me borrowing this?” Zack asks, popping open the satchel at his hip and tucking the train pass away. 

“Absolutely,” Aerith answers serenely from where she is perched on one of the side-facing seats. “She almost never goes above the Plate. I don’t see why that gil should go to waste.” She glances up as Zack―who is clutching onto a pole for dear life and pretending that the ever-turning train is not affecting him―grunts with frustration. 

“Zack, _really_. Please just sit down.” She pats the seat beside her. “You’re probably going to be on your feet all day anyway.” 

Unfortunately, Aerith has a point. Upon boarding the train, Zack remained standing out of some mix of an antiquated need to impress, a streak of paranoia, and the fear of being misunderstood, but his strength is still a bit touch and go. So, with a tired nod, he extends his arm until he is as close to the empty seat as possible and releases the pole.

After plopping down beside Aerith, he shifts with discomfort, not yet accustomed to the vulnerable sensation of walking around without his armor―let alone his sword, which he entrusted to Cloud for safekeeping. If Zack were alone, he might have risked at least keeping the armor, but he promised Cloud he would return, so cautious he shall remain. As it is, he looks just like one of the other commuters: worn down and jaded.

“Did you remember to grab the water bottle?” Aerith asks, poking his shoulder. 

Zack laughs, recalling the sight of a determined Cloud stuffing the refilled bottle into his satchel. “I didn’t even have a chance to forget. Cloud took care of it.” 

As the train steadily climbs Midgar’s central column, he looks out from the opposite windows, which provide an aerial view of the slums’ pervasive gloom. In comparison, the sunlight that sneaks into the church, the result of the building residing near the edge of Midgar, is a stroke of luck―most of these people do not even have that much. Regardless, it is safer down here for him and Cloud, even if Zack already misses the sky. One day soon, he will have to take Cloud up to the city above along with him. It cannot be healthy to linger in the darkness for days on end. 

“Is he going to be okay on his own?” 

Blinking out of his reverie, Zack turns to face Aerith. “Yeah. Cloud’s a lot tougher than he looks.” 

“You―” Smiling, Aerith tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. “―don’t look so sure.”

“Oh, no, I am,” Zack protests, half expecting Cloud to pop out from the woodwork and frown menacingly in his direction. “It’s just… Worrying about him has become a habit. He, he was a little off yesterday. He’s fine, but―” He sighs, mentally kicking himself for what he is about to request. Lowering his voice, he asks, “Could you keep an eye on him when I’m not around? Just, if he’s acting weird or not moving much, maybe nudge him or something?” 

“Of course,” Aerith answers in a whisper, an intense look of concern crossing her features. “What’s wrong exactly?” 

Zack lifts a hand in the air, pretending at flippancy. “Probably the ‘poison’ not being out of his system yet. He was out of it the whole time we were―” He glances around the train car, ensuring that no one has breached their bubble of privacy. “―when we were traveling. He’s still recovering from that.” 

“Alright, I’ll make sure he’s okay. You can count on me,” Aerith declares with a reassuring nod, green eyes blazing. In another universe, Zack thinks that he would love her for it. “Did you meet him during…your last mission?” 

Slowly, Zack shakes his head, pleasant and painful memories battling each other as he remembers a shy country boy introducing himself in the falling snow. “No, in Modeoheim. And we crossed paths a few times after that.” 

Seemingly registering the drop in mood, Aerith nudges his shoulder with a gentle smile. “He seems lovely, if a little sad.” 

Even as his heart clamors, _He is_ , Zack knows not to agree to such a damning statement. “Cloud’s been through a lot.”

“From what you said, you _both_ have,” Aerith whispers, looking down at the basket of flowers in her lap and tracing the petals carefully. “And for so long. I can’t imagine what you two must have suffered.” 

“We got through it.” Biting his lip, Zack desperately searches his brain for a change of subject, only to revert to small talk in lieu of anything more distracting. “Hey, we’ve been so busy settling in that I never actually asked. Aerith, how have _you_ been?”

Aerith looks up, eyes flashing with a touch of melancholy. “I’ve been okay. Not much happens down here, so I’ve been tending to the flowers, filling Midgar with them,” she quotes with a knowing smile. “I’ve mostly kept to myself, really.”

Despite knowing that it is no longer his place, a part of Zack wants to ask if she ever dated anyone after he disappeared―whether she moved on. And yet, there is no outcome of that which would not result in having to explain the growing _something_ that has begun to command his heart, and he is not yet prepared for that conversation. He does not think that Aerith would condemn him for his feelings, but he cannot stand the thought of hurting her, even if the grim reality of his circumstances would only inspire her pity…

_Discarded. A metal staircase. Cold at his cheek. Light footsteps moving past him with nary a pause. A boy leaning over a girl._

“Zack? Are you okay?”

Zack inhales sharply, compensating for the shallowness of his breaths. As though it never existed, he buries the memory, looks at Aerith, and prays that his grin appears genuine.

“Sorry. I’m just still a little tired,” he explains with a forced yawn, keeping up the pretense even as Aerith frowns in concern. “But, you know, those blankets you gave us really helped. Thank you for those. _Really_. It was the first time I got uninterrupted sleep in a good while.”

“Oh, well, you’re welcome, of course!” Aerith chirps, visibly pleased and, Zack notes with relief, successfully diverted.

“We really appreciate it,” Zack says with a smile. Then, in anticipation of another influx of expensive gifts, he hurries to add, “But Cloud and I’ll be fine from now on, okay? No more presents.”

Much to Zack’s dismay, Aerith hums in a suspicious manner. “They’re not presents―they’re _supplies_. But, since you asked nicely, I guess I can stop meddling. _But_ as soon as it looks like you need the help, I’m stepping in.” She raises her brows and crosses her legs daintily. “Keep that boy fed, would you? He looks like a breeze could knock him over.” 

Zack clears his throat, exerting his entire will to keep the fluster from showing on his face. “That reminds me: where did you get those shirts? I wanted to buy some more things.” 

“Oh, of course! I left you some gil for that. I guess you mean underwear and the like?” 

“Well, yeah. And toothpaste,” Zack admits awkwardly. 

“Whoops! I knew I was forgetting something.” She tilts her head, closing her eyes with a penitent smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” They did not have toothpaste in the wilds, after all. Supplies had been found and abandoned in the same breath―the only constant had been the need to stay one step ahead of their hunters. “It wasn’t a priority,” he murmurs, looking away in faint embarrassment. 

Across the aisle, a couple is sitting by the exit, the man leaning sleepily on the woman’s shoulder as she peruses a magazine. When he shifts, slipping downward, the woman does not even hesitate: she drops the magazine on her lap, raises an arm to drape it across the man’s shoulders, and leaves a kiss on his temple before returning to her reading. Stealthily, Zack glances at Aerith for her reaction, but she sits facing him, oblivious to the other passengers.

Zack finds himself caught in a peculiar state of unravelment. He wants, but he does not _want_. It is simply one more confirmation to add to his list. 

Aerith sighs, shaking her head. “I guess it got lost in the rush. Anyway, there’s a boutique in the Wall Market. They should have what you need, and there’s a general store not far from there.” 

Zack scrunches his nose at the prospect of visiting the Wall Market. While he was never an especially huge fan of Sector 6, he has far more love lost for the people who, in their words, chose to “slum it” there. Plenty of his fellow soldiers even followed suit, claiming how much cheaper the rates were under the Plate. Most, he recalls, had flocked to the Honey Bee, loitering outside the brothel like dogs in heat. He does not envy the people who work there.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Aerith assures, flapping a hand in his direction. “As long as you avoid the suspicious-looking men, it’s perfectly safe.”

“All the men look suspicious,” Zack mutters absently, too occupied with calculating the likelihood of encountering a Shinra soldier in the slums to pay much attention to his response. 

“Alright, granted,” Aerith agrees with a chuckle. “Avoid all the men.”

\--- 

Aptly named, “Binh’s” is an establishment tucked away in a side street just off a main thoroughfare in Sector 1. Given the competitiveness of the eateries in this section of the city, it is perhaps a miracle that it remains open, but its clandestine nature has seemingly only added to its popularity. That, or its regulars are putting up a stalwart effort to keep it above water.

Zack lets out a sigh of relief as he stares up at the swinging sign, his old employer’s name standing out against the light wood. Back when most restaurants turned Zack away due to his age, Binh had been the one to take pity on him, providing him with regular work. As such, while he does not expect Binh to have anything for him on such short notice, he cannot help but hope that his odds are better here than anywhere else―if, that is, Binh still remembers him. Relatively speaking, a few months short of five years is not a long time, but it is a long time to be absent. 

Zack mutters a word of encouragement and, before he can second-guess himself, pulls open the door. Stepping inside, he automatically scans the room, only to reel at the familiarity of the space. Save for a few alterations in decor, the main dining area is largely the same, its collection of subtly mismatched furniture a counterpoint to the modernized bar. Zack would not quite call Binh’s a hole-in-the-wall, but its owner always cared much more for the quality of the food than the atmosphere, which Zack particularly appreciated on the nights when they had leftovers. Above all, the place is _homey_. He never even realized the extent to which until this very moment.

While the host stand remains unattended―unsurprising, given that he missed the lunch rush―a server hovers by one of the window booths, chatting aimlessly with a few dining patrons. After a moment, the former notices Zack and gestures for him to sit wherever, but Zack politely shakes his head, prompting the server to excuse herself from her customers. 

“Hello, welcome to Binh’s!” she greets upon reaching the podium, fingers poised above a stack of menus. “Did you want to order takeout?” 

“Ah, no, I’m actually looking for Binh. Is he around? He might not remember me, but my name is Zack.” 

“Zack,” the woman repeats, her gaze roaming as though physically searching her memory. “Oh, I think Dad’s mentioned a Zack once or twice. Ages ago though.” The woman narrows her dark eyes, inspecting him. Zack cannot for the life of him recall meeting Binh’s daughter, but the resemblance is indisputable, now that he knows to search for it. “Sure, I can get him for you.” 

“Thanks!” Zack plops down on a chair set aside for, he assumes, those waiting for to-go orders. “I’ll just wait here,” he adds unnecessarily, Binh’s daughter glancing down at him with what he would like to believe is amusement. As though in agreement, she huffs gently under her breath and then turns away.

Watching her leave down the service corridor, Zack inhales deeply and pretends as though the unpleasant fluttering that has begun to gnaw at his stomach does not disturb him. Much to his dismay, the more he tries to ignore it, the more the sensation intensifies. It is unfathomable: he can stand against an entire army, and yet, here he waits, starting to shake at not even the notion of a job interview. The stakes here are different, he tells himself. Failure on the battlefield has few outcomes; failure in the real world has endless possibilities. 

Needing a distraction, Zack shakes his head and, in the space where no one can disparage him for his selfishness, allows himself to think of Cloud. And promptly smiles. He remembers how Cloud rifled through the toolbox as Zack readied to leave, how he swatted at him when Zack tried to examine one of the funnier looking tools, how he watched Zack exit the church alongside Aerith, his concern palpable… Cloud, he thinks, deserves more than scant meals and only a few items to his name. 

Zack straightens where he sits, drained of fear and teeming with purpose. After everything they have been through, this is nothing. 

“Zack! Well, shit!” swears a voice from the corridor, none of the customers so much as blinking at the shout. “What hell did you crawl outta?”

Grinning, Zack stands to greet his old friend properly. “Oh, you know. Same hell you’re from,” he quips, looking Binh over as the man strides past the bar and through the dining area. Barrel-chested and gray-haired, Binh at fifty-five appears just as spry as he had at fifty―only, he no longer seems quite so much older. For all that their difference in age has not changed, Zack feels as though he has finally begun to catch up to him. It is an odd thought to have at twenty-two. 

“You’re looking good,” Zack says before joyfully accepting the hug Binh pulls him into. “I see you haven’t run the place into the ground yet.”

“Not for lack of trying!” Binh replies, laughing, and then leans back, his hands clasped onto Zack’s shoulders. “And you’re looking…” He trails off with a sudden frown, staring at Zack’s torso.

Zack shifts in place, painfully aware of the concavity that is his midsection. Aerith was kind enough not to bring _direct_ attention to it, but it must be unmissable. “I, uh, missed a few meals,” Zack explains, smiling in an attempt to sand down the edges of Binh’s frown. When the curve only deepens, he decides to relocate this conversation to someplace far from curious ears. “Hey, uh, if you’re not busy, could I talk to you in private? It won’t take long, I swear.”

“Yeah,” Binh says after a moment, drawing out the word. “Yeah, let’s head into my office.” 

Without a second glance, he nudges at one of Zack’s shoulders and starts walking away, beckoning him down the service corridor. Zack follows, making sure to nod a thanks to Binh’s daughter when they pass by, and slips into the office after him. The moment he closes the door, Binh leans against the edge of his desk, crosses his arms, and fixes Zack with a _look_. Since the room is less of an office and more of a storage closet packed with non-perishable goods―the desk being the only indicator of the former―Zack has no place to hide from his accusing stare.

“So, Zack, where’ve you been all this time? Last time I saw you, I think you came by with some of your SOLDIER friends. That gig not work out for you or something?” Binh’s tone, despite the subject matter, is perfectly casual, as though the decision to desert Shinra is made both easily and without consequences. 

“I was mostly traveling the last few years,” Zack answers with a wave, ignoring the latter question altogether, “and we just got back to Midgar, and, well― Listen, you can kick me out right now if the answer is no, but I really need a job. Even a temporary one would help. _Please_.” Nervous despite himself, Zack tracks Binh’s features, cataloging how the man narrows his eyes and works his jaw. 

“‘We’?” Binh eventually repeats, raising a thick brow. 

“Uh. I’m―” Zack pauses, deliberating whether to use his slip of the tongue to his advantage. “I’m looking after someone,” he finally admits, ignoring the sensation of absent Mako eyes boring holes into the back of his head.

“A kid?”

Bursting into laughter, Zack shakes his head. “No, nothing like that,” he says without elaborating―the little he has confessed would already suffice to cause Cloud to grumble in protest.

“Hm. I see.” With that, Binh quiets once more, eyes stormy with thought as they lower toward the desk and its blanket of loose paperwork.

Loath to interrupt his rumination, Zack waits for Binh’s decision, but as the moments pass without resolution, the prolonged silence―the _stillness_ ―becomes utterly unbearable. His thoughts, in turn, clamor to fill this emptiness, crying out that a minute of inactivity here is a minute of job hunting elsewhere wasted. 

“Y’know, I’m sorry,” Zack blurts out, prompting Binh to glance up. “This is too last minute, never mind.” He scrambles for the door handle, only to startle at the volume of Binh’s booming laugh.

“Shit, Zack! I don’t remember you ever being this twitchy, not even as a boy.” Binh shakes his head, brows rising toward his hairline. “Don’t leave, alright? I can find some work for you.”

Zack stills, staring, and whispers, “Really? Just like that?” His knees threaten to buckle as his panic unwinds from its coil, leaving him boneless. The embarrassment caused by his little outburst unfortunately remains, but, not to be deterred, Zack quickly schools his expression into a mask of professionalism and dips his head in gratitude. “Binh, thank you so much. I swear I won’t let you down.” 

“Nah, don’t thank me. I can’t pay much, is the thing.”

“That’s okay,” Zack assures hurriedly, reviewing his mental shopping list and setting aside the more extravagant items for later. “I don’t mind starting at the bottom. What would you like me to do? Want me to flip a sign around?” he suggests, recalling a particularly flashy display he witnessed on the way here. “I can flip a sign around.” 

“This ain’t a furniture depot, Zack,” Binh replies, visibly perturbed. “We don’t have signs―we have menus.” Rolling his eyes, he reaches across his desk and picks up a stack of colorful pamphlets, which he thrusts into Zack’s chest. “Here. I can never trust that my grandsons don’t just throw these out before fucking off who knows where. At least I can depend on you to actually hand them out.”

Curious, Zack sorts through the menus and flips one over, revealing a family photo―featuring Binh, his daughter, and three teenage boys―printed below a banner that reads, _Family owned and operated_. The boys are grinning mischievously, their adult counterparts looking somewhat drawn but evidently happy. Proud, even. 

“They look like a handful,” Zack murmurs with a smile.

“You’ve no idea.” Sighing, Binh reaches out and pats Zack’s shoulder, seemingly commiserating with himself. “Now, come back in time for the dinner rush and I’ll set you up on wash-up duty. The boys will be glad for some time off.”

“Oh, wait, I―” Wincing, Zack lowers the menus with dismay. “I don’t want to take someone else’s job.”

“Frankly, you’d be doing me a favor,” Binh mutters, eyes screwing shut in exaggerated pain. “I’d rather pay you to do a good job than not pay them to do a shitty one.”

“Huh. Well, in that case, consider it done!”

\---

Humming to himself, Zack meanders along the street perpendicular to Binh’s and keeps a sharp eye out for potential customers. In the short time he has been grinding away at what he has fondly dubbed “the menu challenge,” he has already established a point system. Large groups are the easiest targets, as they are often indecisive regarding where they would like to eat, so they accept the menus gladly―for this reason, they count as one point. Couples, too, are relatively amenable; they only count as two points. 

Lone, sauntering passersby are toss-ups. If he catches them in a good mood, they might indulge him, so they count as three. At the top at five points are the ones that barrel past him with single-minded purposes. Understandably, marketing-wise, these are to be avoided at all costs. Still, an over-the-top smile was enough to guarantee Zack those elusive five points on one occasion. He had stuffed the menu into the woman’s hand before she could shake off her daze; he would feel guilty if he did not feel so vindicated. He can be plenty charming, thank you, _Cloud_. 

Thus far, he has racked up thirty-four points. _And counting_ , he thinks as he passes a menu to a couple too distracted by each other to register what they are being handed.

“Pardon me, sir. Would you care for a flower? Only a gil!” 

Chuckling to himself, Zack turns around to face Aerith, who offers not only a lily, but also a teasing smile. Playing along, he tilts his head in pretend consideration and exclaims, “Well, _normally_ , I’d try to save up my money, but you remind me so much of a dear friend of mine that I can’t say no!” When he reaches for his satchel, Aerith makes an affronted noise and smacks his hand away from the buckle. Smiling wryly, he adds, “Did I mention that I owe this friend a bunch of gil?” 

To his delight, Aerith huffs in annoyance but does not intercede as he ducks back down to search the bag. She even accepts the _two_ gil he hands her―albeit with narrowed eyes―and passes him the flower without comment. As they trade sweet smiles, Zack vows that, if he ends up finding coins in his pocket, he will absolutely break into Aerith’s house to return them. He will even press-gang Cloud into providing a distraction. However, he would have no need of such subterfuge if he could avoid Aerith reverse pickpocketing him in the first place, which would no doubt be easier if his hands were not laden with menus and flora. 

And so, with that in mind, Zack tucks the yellow lily behind his left ear, threading the stem into his hair. “How do I look?” he sing-songs, gesturing to his new accessory with a dramatic flourish.

Bursting into a giggle, Aerith nods quickly. “Very handsome.” 

“Thanks.” Zack side-eyes the bloom and marvels at how much the soft tint reminds him of Cloud. Just a touch warmer and it would be a dead ringer for his blond spikes. “You should give one to Cloud. It’d match his hair.” 

Humming thoughtfully, Aerith taps her chin as she inspects his handiwork. “I _could_ , but you could also just―” She points at his flower with a giant grin. “―give him that one.” 

Zack stutters into an awkward laugh, reeling at the irony of Aerith suggesting such an innocent gift without knowing the implications. “Nah, I doubt he’d appreciate that,” he equivocates and, before Aerith can respond, exclaims, “So, hey, that guy I mentioned was able to give me some work!” He raises the menus, shaking them pointedly. “After this, I’m officially the dishwasher at Binh’s. Well, probationary dishwasher, he said, whatever that means, but still!”

“Oh, Zack, that’s wonderful!” Aerith clasps her hands together, nearly spilling her basket of flowers as she bounces back on her heels. “In that case, I can tell Cloud you’ll be back late. I need to go water the flowers after this anyway.”

“Thanks! Tell him I should be back before nine. And hey, if we’re lucky, maybe he’s already fixed that sink thing.” _And probably bored out of his mind, hopefully not losing time_ , Zack thinks with a tinge of concern.

Aerith nods knowingly, twining her arms through the handle of her basket. “That’s the hope, yes. Anyway, since you’re staying, did you think to grab food for later?”

“Cloud,” Zack says simply, patting the eggs and slice of bread waiting in the satchel. The affection resting within his core rises from its slumber, stretches, and switches sides before curling back inward. 

“Oh, good! At least one of you thinks ahead,” Aerith says with palpable relief, which is…frankly justified. “Okay, please remember to take breaks, then.”

“Aerith, I’m pretty sure if I don’t, my legs will fall off,” Zack deadpans, only to dart away when he catches sight of a cozy-looking couple ambling along the street. “Hey, check out Binh’s!” he exclaims, offering a menu. “Their kebabs are to die for.”

Visibly flummoxed, the man accepts the pamphlet on autopilot before doing a double take at Zack’s face, seemingly drawn by the flower. “ _Whoa_ , a-are those Mako eyes?” he stutters out, his girlfriend looking over with interest.

“That’s right,” Zack confirms as his brain works in overdrive to provide an excuse. When it succeeds in solely producing a vision of Cloud’s lovely blue eyes forever engulfed in the green chemical, he begins to panic―until he realizes that this _is_ the excuse. “ _Mako poisoning_. The reactor in Gongaga blew up, and I, uh, was too close. This is just one of the side effects.”

“ _Shit_ ,” the man hisses, “that _sucks_.” He proceeds to stare at Zack’s eyes, seemingly at a loss, before his girlfriend pointedly nudges him away.

Releasing a slow exhale, Zack glances at Aerith, who then tactfully reaches over and plucks the flower from his ear before fitting the stem into his pants pocket. 

“I think,” Zack murmurs, “I should add sunglasses to the shopping list.”

Solemnly, Aerith nods.

\--- 

The danger with leftovers, Zack thinks as he pivots on his heel and decidedly chooses a safer route, is that their wafting smells attract monsters. Normally, he would simply tuck the food away into his satchel, but the latter is already full of various purchased goods, and lingering to make a switch would provide a window that said monsters could exploit. While Zack is prepared to fight for their meal, he has, as Aerith predicted, spent most of today on his feet. He would rather not test his fortitude with an impromptu wrestling match.

Fortunately, the slums are littered with nooks and crannies that not even the monsters bother inspecting; in a rare show of patience, Zack slinks between them, avoiding any unwanted encounters. As a result, returning to the church is taking far longer than anticipated, but it will all be worth it when he can present his haul to Cloud. 

After the dinner rush, Binh had pointedly pushed the takeout box of grilled vegetables and rice into his arms, topping it off with a sealed envelope whose contents clinked together promisingly. Following an evening of scrubbing stubborn pans and washing delicate glasses, Zack had no qualms about accepting both the money and the food, which would have otherwise ended up in the trash. 

Just the thought of the meal sends Zack’s stomach complaining―now that it is slowly becoming accustomed to being fed again, it whines more piteously than it ever had before. He should not have teased it by opening the box and breathing in a whiff of the enticing smells of Binh’s cooking, but he had not been able to resist. 

Deciding to risk it, Zack speeds up, keeping his footsteps light and his satchel pressed to his hip to avoid any undue shuffling sounds. He fiddles with the buckle of the bag, checking that it remains closed despite being stuffed with supplies he managed to acquire from the Wall Market―if only barely, as he had arrived at the general store as the shopkeeper was locking up for the night. He is not especially proud of the way he pled his way into a last-minute purchase of toothpaste and toothbrushes, but the results speak for themselves. 

The clothing boutique, on the other hand, was still open despite being manned by a markedly melancholy man who had long since reached his twilight years. When Zack brought several pairs of socks and underwear and one black tank top to the counter, the elderly man sighed and muttered to himself as he rang up the items. Zack thinks he might have caught the word “uninspired” among the grumbles, but he cannot be certain. As such, he left the shop with the vague impression that he had been insulted, but thankfully with the clothes in his possession―save for, that is, a pair of sunglasses that cost more than Zack was comfortable spending.

No, that is a purchase better left for another time. For now, they should pool their savings while Binh is feeling charitable enough to keep slipping them leftovers. The sunglasses will hardly disappear, after all―the denizens of a sunless place are not likely to spend their few gil on something so useless. Considering that he and Cloud fall into this category, it seems wise to follow their example for the moment. 

_Well_ , Zack thinks as the church finally peeks out from among the debris, beckoning him onward, _at least we don’t need to worry about rent!_

Grinning, he picks up the pace, keeping an eye out for any assailants. So far, he has not observed any monsters in the proximity of the church, but he would rather not pin his hopes on the inviolableness of divinity, even if he suspects Aerith’s interference in this matter. He saw the state of her staff―it was clearly worn down, but from _use_ rather than age. The monsters, no doubt, know to grant her a wide berth.

Zack bounds up the steps and proceeds to knock, suspecting that Cloud would not appreciate him barging in unannounced. He waits a few polite seconds and then swings open a door, calling out a joking “I’m home!” 

Despite having already spent two nights in the church, as Zack steps inside, he cannot help but feel that the sight before him is unfamiliar. Had it always been this dark? The shadows confined to the nave betray a nigh on sticky quality, gathering in the corners and grooves of the space like tar. Perhaps it is the fault of the lantern, which punctures the darkness sharply but minimally, illuminating only the far left corner.

Then, Cloud’s face, lantern-lit, pops up from that same corner, and the shadows recede.

“I. Am. _Exhausted_ ,” Zack proclaims as he makes it a few short steps before plopping into the nearest pew. With a dramatic sigh, he places the back of his hand against his forehead, closes his eyes, and proceeds to smile at the whisper of feet padding his way. “I’m just gonna stay here until a kind soul has the strength to drag me to bed.” 

“Sucks for you,” comes the unsympathetic reply. “The blankets are way more comfortable.” 

Huffing, Zack slits open an eye, only to come face-to-face with a Cloud that is, for lack of a better word, _intent_. Transcribed to another, he suspects that his expression would be an indication of interest―or perhaps anticipation―but he cannot be certain, as he is still learning to read this more subdued Cloud. 

“What’s up, sunshine?” 

Cloud shifts where he stands, transferring his weight to one foot and then back again. Zack grants him a moment to collect himself before he starts trying to pry out his thoughts―too relieved at the chance to rest to hurry him along―only for Cloud to grab his forearm not five seconds later. As Zack whines in protest, Cloud tugs him into standing and pulls him along, clearly taking his earlier statement to heart.

“Sunshine, you could’ve just brought the blankets to me!” 

Cloud glances over his shoulder before shaking his head. “I don’t think that bench could fit us both.” 

“I suppose not,” Zack replies, grinning. Technically, because he can comfortably handle Cloud’s weight on top of him, they _could_ fit lengthwise, but he decides not to mention that detail. After all, if Cloud does not so much as blink at the notion of sharing a sleeping space with him, then why should he contend its location? The ground, a pew, or a pallet―Zack would gladly accept either of these beds if Cloud agreed to join him. 

“Oh, here!” Zack exclaims when they reach the end of the aisle, pointedly lifting the takeout box. “Let me put this food down before I drop it.” 

Without a word, Cloud nabs the box, darts away, and, in the span of two blinks, returns, having switched out their dinner for the lantern. Mind slow after a long workday, Zack watches him carry it away, wondering what it was Cloud had been so insistent about. It is only when Cloud glances back at him expectantly, stopping at the open door of the washroom, that Zack gasps, scurries after him, and then practically pushes him inside in his excitement. And then, considering, Zack _does_ , prodding Cloud along with a few nudges to his upper back. 

“Show me, show me!” Zack exclaims, groaning in annoyance when Cloud refuses to budge. “You’re _killing_ me here.” 

“Didn’t you spend your evening at a sink?” Cloud asks lowly, tilting his head back into Zack’s shoulder.

“Not the same,” Zack replies, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t gonna dunk my shirt in there with the plates.” When Cloud does not respond, he wonders whether the blond might be stalling not out of malice, but out of nerves, unsettled at the prospect of presenting his handiwork. So, eager to prove his theory, Zack gentles his tone, giving Cloud one last nudge. “Come on, sunshine. Show me.”

After a brief pause, Cloud finishes the short trek to the basin and, with little to no fanfare, twists the knob. When a steady stream of water exits the faucet, Zack hollers in delight and grabs Cloud from behind, shaking him excitedly every which way. 

“Cloud, you absolute genius!” Unable to resist, he catches Cloud across the chest and ruffles his hair with his free hand. He softens his efforts when Cloud tries to duck away, but he does not let go when Cloud pulls at Zack’s forearm, registering that the weak escape attempt is clearly for show.

“It was just a clog,” Cloud protests, sounding pleased. 

“‘Just a clog,’ he says,” Zack repeats. “Tell that to months of no running water.” Although he will undoubtedly regret this later, he plasters his cheek against Cloud’s hair, making sure to play up the dramatics. It is all in the performance, he knows: overact and everyone will simply brand you as overexcited, completely missing what would be otherwise plain to see. 

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” Cloud deadpans, patting the forearm resting along his collarbones. 

Stifling a sigh, Zack loosens his grip and pulls away from the one-sided embrace. Then, on impulse, he sticks his face into the still flowing water, jolting at the blessed cold. When his brain clamors for more, he edges back to pool the water into his cupped palms and splash the rest of his face. As he expected, the _something_ remains close to the surface of his thoughts, but its cries are now dampened―quieter.

“We have a place to hide things now,” Cloud calls from farther into the chamber. Stemming the water, Zack watches as he taps his foot against the loosened floorboard. “I wouldn’t use it for food though.” The lantern, swinging in his relaxed grasp, casts Cloud’s figure in eerie, ethereal shadows, limning his profile with yellow. When Zack does not respond, he glances back, eyes faintly glowing green.

“Speaking of food,” Zack forces himself to say, pasting a grin onto his face, “I think you’ve more than earned your share. Come on.”

Shaking off his strange mood, he leads them out to the nave and back to the pew containing their dinner. The rice and vegetables, when Zack pops open the takeout container, are lukewarm at best, but that does not dissuade Cloud from crowding in at his side, eyes wide and unwavering. They settle side by side on the floor, leaning against the bench, and take turns gathering mouthfuls with the bamboo chopsticks Binh had slipped Zack. After the immediate hunger has been quelled, Zack begins rambling about his day, eager to hear every one of Cloud’s responses now that he is conscious to proffer them. 

“You’re lucky he took you on,” Cloud murmurs once Zack has finished detailing his so-called job interview. “Making his grandkids do the work’s cheaper.” 

“Yeah, I guess I must look pretty pathetic,” Zack admits sourly, nudging at a piece of broccoli. Was he any better as a teen? He remembers showing up on Binh’s doorstep with only a shit-eating grin and a few gil to his name, so perhaps not. “Maybe as bad as when I last worked for him. You know, sunshine, I was never as short as you were―” Cloud elbows him in the ribs. “―but that was before my growth spurt. Next to Binh, I looked scrawny.”

Cloud squints at him over the dwindling remains of their meal, purses his lips, and then shakes his head. “I can’t picture it.” 

“No?”

“No.” Cloud drops his chin into his palm, arm propped up on his raised thigh. “I can only picture you as a SOLDIER,” he muses, the weight he adds to the final word causing Zack to mentally capitalize it. 

While Zack wonders whether he should be saddened by Cloud’s remark, he cannot claim to be surprised. After all, Cloud has only ever known him as a lackey of Shinra, not having borne witness to the changes the recent months wrought. Yet, whether it is possible to escape the taint of all that SOLDIER has become is another matter entirely. Even now―even armorless and weaponless―his eyes glow tellingly. Is identity, therefore, ever fixed?

Pushing these unhelpful thoughts aside, Zack shrugs and passes the takeout container to his friend, no longer hungry. “Becoming a SOLDIER didn’t really change much. I was just as dumb and naive as ever.”

When Cloud frowns, Zack turns away to open the satchel resting at his side, desperate to change the subject, and unearths his purchases. With playful gravitas, he lifts the clothes and then releases them at chest level, socks and underwear plopping awkwardly onto their laps and the few inches of floor between them. As an afterthought, he tosses the toothpaste and toothbrushes on top of the mess.

“Gifts from the hygiene gods. Oh―” Zack draws out the tank top from where it was hiding at the bottom of the pile. “This one’s for me. Can’t have the neighbors ogling me on laundry day.”

Slowly, Cloud inspects their surroundings, pausing at the shattered windows and the darkness beyond them. “Because that was the main concern,” he agrees, eyes smiling. 

\--- 

Refreshed and feeling nearly human again, Zack drops onto their pew and kicks out a leg to drag the satchel toward him. In the corner, Cloud hovers by the makeshift bed, flipping absently through the pages of a book, seemingly not paying much attention to its contents. When Zack asked whether the small stack of books had been gifted by Aerith, Cloud nodded and explained that they were mostly filled with fairy tales. 

“They’re nice,” he admitted quietly. “Simple.” 

Zack supposes that he should thank Aerith for this particular “meddling,” his request for her to step back notwithstanding. There is no point in keeping Cloud safe if boredom will find him before Shinra even has the chance. Bored people, Zack knows, do stupid things. Bored people leave the peace of home and sign away their lives to a corporation to whom they are merely bodies to bolster its ranks.

Shaking his head, Zack withdraws both Aerith’s purse and Binh’s envelope. The former he sets aside; ideally, they will leave its contents untouched. Although he already returned two of its coins, he knows that repaying the rest will take some finagling, even if the price of eighteen gil is nothing compared to what she has already done for them―and no doubt still plans to do. Since she will not likely accept anything more, smuggling, it seems, might be his only option.

Zack upends the envelope and counts seven gil left over from his visit to the shops. Given the thirty-three gil he spent, it amounts to a pay rate of eight gil per hour, which, though quite low, is at least _tangible_. Moreover, while food is not especially cheap, they will be able to save much in that regard thanks to Binh’s graciousness. Tomorrow, too, he has both the lunch and dinner shift to look forward to; already, that is fifty-six gil at maximum. 

_We can do this_ , Zack thinks. They survived on nothing―they can live on little.

“Zack?”

Mired in budgets, Zack briefly glances up at his name, only to do a double take. “Oh,” he says, because that is all he can think to say to a shocked Cloud holding the Buster Sword up before him. His muscles are tensed but not strained, arms steady and back upright, as though the action takes little to no effort. 

Weighed down by realization, Zack slowly rises from the pew. When Cloud does not so much as glance his way, he sighs quietly and approaches from behind, only stopping when he stands but inches from Cloud’s shoulder. A dying part of Zack cannot help but feel pride at Cloud’s progress, but the prevalent part balks at the sight of the Buster Sword in his hands. Casting for a soothing distraction, Zack focuses instead on the stud in Cloud’s left ear lobe. The piercing was present, he remembers, when they first met on those snowy trails of Modeoheim, but when had Cloud had it done? Was it a coincidence that they wore the same earring, or had Cloud, dreaming of joining SOLDIER, emulated the style?

Perhaps, then, this is not the tragedy that Zack imagines it as―this is, after all, what Cloud always hoped for. And who is Zack to dictate Cloud’s dreams? So, shedding his confliction, he places a hand on Cloud’s far shoulder and murmurs, “The Mako must’ve finally caught up to you. I guess you’re technically a SOLDIER now.” 

Cloud shifts his head, peeking at Zack with a green-tinged eye. In a voice far too broken for all the stars that once shone in his hero-worshipping gaze, he whispers, “I thought I’d be happier.” 

So had Zack, an eternity ago. The words are yet another echo of the past. Heart screaming, he edges closer and squeezes Cloud’s shoulder. The sword lowers, hitting the wood floor with a gentle thunk. 

“It’s not like you agreed to this,” Zack says, trying to temper his tone. Cloud does not need to hear his rage break the placid surface of his composure. He does not need to see him lament the fact that Shinra has left its claw marks on everything Zack has ever held dear.

Frowning, Cloud shakes his head. “Yeah, I did. I signed the contract, same as everyone.” He twists his neck to look up at him. They are standing so closely that, if Zack were to lean down, they could touch temples. “It’s probably all in there, hidden under a pile of clauses.” 

Despite himself, Zack chuckles, imagining the team of long-suffering lawyers Shinra must have on retainer. “Please be advised that, should you be injured in battle, you might be passed on to our R & D department. Shinra is not responsible for any resulting dismemberment or death.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Cloud finishes with a decisive nod.

They lapse into silence, the joke expiring in its cradle, and Zack finds that he has abruptly lost the will to maintain a facade of cheeriness. Not only is he tired from a day of work, but neither has he recovered the strength that nearly dying siphoned away―and with the exhaustion comes a lack of caring. As such, he does not think twice before he closes his eyes with a huff, drops his forehead to Cloud’s shoulder, and redistributes his weight onto his friend. Cloud, in turn, arcs his back to avoid stumbling, but does not otherwise protest. 

_The advantages of having SOLDIER strength_ , Zack thinks with a wistful frown, rolling his head minutely across the fabric of Cloud’s shirt. He could doze off here―he does not think that Cloud would mind. Addled by fatigue, he opens his mouth to ask, only to be derailed by the whisper of his own name.

“Mm?” 

Cloud sighs, the exhale sharp against Zack’s ear. “Why did they do that to us?”

Opening his eyes, Zack mirrors the sigh. Cloud deserves an actual answer, not an equivocation, so he takes a moment to gather himself and the few details he was able to glean. Strangely, the memories struggle to be heard, calling out to him as though from the bottom of a well, the echoes distorting the truth. He frowns at the meager results. He could have sworn that he knew more than this, but he sets this thought aside, determined to share what little he remembers. 

“They were trying to progress SOLDIER, I think. Injecting us with different chemicals to see if anything would stick. There’s―” Zack pauses, swallowing. “I don’t even know if there are any Firsts left, or if they made new ones. As far as Shinra’s concerned, Sephiroth, Genesis, A-Angeal… They were all failed experiments. Since Shinra tried to kill me…I guess I was one, too.”

Of course, whether Cloud was a failed experiment is yet to be seen.

 _Please, gods, let him be like me_ , Zack prays. _Don’t take him away from me._

Cloud shifts under his weight. Hoping to catch a glimpse of his expression, Zack cranes his head sideward, but the little he can make out is too vague to read. “I don’t think it was personal, sunshine―if that helps.”

Steadily, Cloud lifts the broadsword back into the air. “I think I’d rather it had been.”

As one, they stare down at the weapon. Nothing more is said.

\---

At first, Zack thinks that he is being attacked. Then, through the haze of sleep, he registers that the hands moving across his torso are not causing him pain, but are frantically pressing against his skin through the fabric of his shirt. The murmurs of panic are what finally snap Zack into wide-eyed wakefulness.

The moment Zack sees him, he knows what is wrong. Between Cloud’s terrified eyes and his hands scouring Zack’s chest, it takes little extrapolation. He is, after all, intimately familiar with night terrors and all that they entail. Careful not to startle him, Zack quietly calls out his name, but Cloud is deaf to all outside assurances. With a whimper, he crumples, head falling and shoulders drooping, and Zack jolts upright, reaching to cradle his face between gentle palms.

“Cloud, _Cloud_ , it’s okay. _I’m_ okay.” 

Caught, Cloud freezes, his arms hovering at Zack’s torso. His eyes meet Zack’s, but they hold no spark of recognition. Trembling, his hands resume their agitated movements, weakly trying to wrench the fabric in their grasp. 

Wondering if he will regret this later, Zack shushes him and lies back down, pulling Cloud with him. Although Zack has never calmed anyone suffering from a nightmare, he has experienced plenty of his own to guess for what one might yearn. For him, it has always been the warmth of a friend, a willing ear, and kind words―if he is lucky, one of these will suit Cloud. Eager to at least try, Zack, shouldering most of Cloud’s weight, tucks him into his side, angles his mouth toward the blond’s ear, and starts speaking into the darkness.

“Your name is Cloud Strife. You’re in Midgar in a church in Sector 5, and you are safe. My name is Zack Fair. I’m your friend. I’m here with you, and I am safe.”

Cautiously, Cloud’s arm, which was propped awkwardly at his side, relaxes and flattens against Zack’s chest until the hand rests on his right clavicle. After a moment, its fingers slip into the collar of his shirt and remain there, clutching the fabric, while an odd pressure digs into Zack’s sternum―the wristwatch, he realizes. Cloud must have forgotten to remove before bed.

Relieved, Zack exhales, letting the air billow past Cloud’s ear. The more tactile sensations he can provide, the better he can ground him. As an afterthought, he reaches up and buries his fingers into the short hairs at the back of Cloud’s head, only to frown when the blond shivers. He shifts his feet, attempting to kick the blanket back up from where Cloud must have tossed it aside, but gives it up as a lost cause when it remains out of his range. 

“Shinra didn’t kill me,” he continues, remembering the way Cloud touched him as though searching for any lingering wetness. “You healed me. We’re both okay.” And then, because Zack understands the fragility of those first minutes of cognizance, he whispers, “This is not a dream. You’re awake.”

When Zack hears the first sniffle, he immediately raises his other hand to caress Cloud’s nape, making panicked shushing noises. Then, just as quickly, he bites his tongue. If Cloud is crying, then he is _reacting_. Initial blankness aside, he is therefore not having an episode―that, or they managed to divert it.

Yet, even if the crying is a positive sign, it does little to dissuade Zack’s heart from aching in sympathy. After being removed from consciousness for so long, the reality of their situation must still be hitting Cloud hard. It is only natural that it is finally catching up to him, just as the Mako has. For Zack, nightmares are an expected part of his routine, but the same cannot be said for the blond trembling in his arms. Even if Nibelheim’s fires _had_ played across the backs of his eyelids, he does not remember it now. 

“Are you with me, Cloud?” he asks when the hitched breathing has nearly evened out. 

After a moment, Cloud nods, tilting his face toward Zack’s voice. Telegraphing his movements, Zack slips his right hand away and runs it along Cloud’s forearm until it reaches the watch. When he angles it his way, it proclaims in glowing, green digits that it is barely past six in the morning. 

Zack hums, considering. “Do you want to go back to sleep?” 

As he expected, Cloud, following a moment of deliberation, shakes his head. Fear, after all, has always been a fine candidate for chasing away the pull toward sleep. In the wilderness, this simply meant night watch duty; here, they have far more options. Struck by a memory of nighttime wandering, Zack strokes Cloud’s head and asks, “Do you want to go for a walk?” When Cloud does not respond, he adds, “Together.”

Cloud shrugs sharply, perhaps hoping to hide his nod. It is just a little thing, a mere bob of the head, but, with a hand curled into his hair, Zack catches it. “Well, _I_ could go for one, and I’m dragging you along. Up you go,” he orders with a soft nudge to Cloud’s shoulder.

As though thawing, Cloud begins to retract the fingers curled into Zack’s shirt collar while Zack waits patiently. He cannot help but regret kicking Cloud out of bed, but they must either rise or spend a sleepless morning tucked against each other, and Zack does not have the willpower to withhold his affections at such an early hour. He is transparent enough as it is.

The shirt collar slingshots against his neck when Cloud finally releases it, drawing Zack’s attention to how swiftly he rolls away and sits upright as soon as he is disconnected. Curious, Zack remains where he is, cataloging the minute movements of his head tilting anywhere but in Zack’s direction. He would bet serious gil that, were he to invade his space, Cloud would promptly run away.

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Zack whispers as he props himself up, stretching out the soreness of lying on a wood floor. He reaches out and pats Cloud’s shoulder, failing to ignore how his shirt had rucked up during sleep, exposing his lower back. The edge of his scar, peeking out from the fabric, is discernible even in the faint light of early morning. Without looking, he grabs the hem and tugs it down, causing Cloud to crane his head back. He does not, however, meet Zack’s eyes.

“You think I don’t have nightmares?” Zack asks, fixated on his profile. “I’ve lost count of how many times Shinra has captured you in them. Don’t be embarrassed, Cloud.”

Cloud turns to face him, and the _something_ wails. Zack has seen Cloud grieving, has seen him delighted and enraged and playful, but he has never seen him so _lost_. For a moment, he entertains the thought of reaching out, cradling his beloved face, and bumping their foreheads together. Instead, because he is both strong and utterly weak, Zack tears himself away from the pallet and shuffles over to the pew, aiming for where he left his pants to dry overnight.

Washing the pants had been the final, crazed act of a demanding day, but, unable to stomach the stiffness of his dried blood any longer, Zack had refused to put it off. Still, even with the benefit of running water and soap, it took ages, cutting into bedtime. As a result, when he tests the fabric, his fingers come away a touch damp. With a resigned sigh, he grabs the pants and slips them on before ducking down to snake his feet into his boots. 

Zack groans in disgust and dances back and forth, trying to shake off the discomfort. “Remind me to get us some sweatpants, sunshine. This is the worst.” 

Turning back around, he finds Cloud standing halfway between the bed and the pew, his eyes fixed on the ground, arms hanging loose, and fingers twitching. After a second, he seems to register Zack’s remark and dips his head in a single nod, but he does not otherwise respond. Zack frowns, fearing that Cloud might be on the verge of losing time, only to stubbornly nod to himself. All the more reason to snap him out of it with a brisk walk. 

Passing Cloud with a pat to his shoulder, Zack walks to their corner and leans over to retrieve the Buster Sword. While he would rather avoid carting it around for all to see, it is dark enough that even the early birds will only just be waking―he cannot, however, say the same for the prowling monsters. As such, he decides not to bother with fetching the sword’s harness, not when he can just as easily prop the weapon against his shoulder where it will be even more accessible if they are assailed.

“Hey, sunshine, did you grab your boots?” 

When Zack turns to see whether Cloud heard, he bites off a swear as he only just misses knocking the sword against his blond shadow, which stumbles back before glancing sideward with a frown.

As Zack stares, the past tugs at him, presenting a memory of when Angeal was first assigned as his mentor. The higher-ups had all gathered together, compared notes, exchanged self-important nods, and wrote up the paperwork before bustling him along toward Angeal, who accepted the arrangement with his trademark sternness―not that Zack ever let that deter him. Those first few days, he trailed Angeal like a starstruck puppy, quickly earning him the selfsame nickname. 

Watching Cloud fidget, Zack wonders whether he has inadvertently replicated that relationship, only vice versa. As much as he considers himself responsible for Cloud’s life, said responsibility puts him in a difficult position: one of trust. He is already pushing the boundaries by letting them sleep alongside each other. 

For all his internal equivocation, Zack understands what he longs for, but what is sought is not always what is gained. If he were to ask, Cloud would refuse him, and so would a chasm break open between them. Regardless of the _something_ , the reality is that they have come to rely on each other, emotionally and otherwise. To ruin that would only foment discontent.

And so, Zack laughs, quips something or other about needing to pay more attention, and leads the way out of the church. He hardly knows what he said. Eventually, Cloud follows.

\---

With little to no sun available to prod them into waking, the depths of Midgar abide in sleep. Normally, Zack would be chattering away, but there is something acceptable about the hush of early morning, an allowance to their fatigue gradually falling away in sloughs.

At Zack’s side, Cloud remains just as silent as he hops over a pile of rusty detritus, not stumbling over it despite the gloom. As he expected, the ruins of the slums are just as dimly lit in the hour before dawn as they had been last night, traversable only thanks to the glowing underside of the Plate. Unsurprisingly, he and Cloud are the only ones out and about this early, the pathways being void of people. Even the monsters have chosen to leave them be. 

Once, they both stopped at the sound of a rustling emanating from the shadows, but whatever slinked toward them slinked away just as quickly. Zack can only imagine what it must have seen: two unmoving silhouettes, one with a hefty protrusion jutting out from its shoulder, both with glowing Mako eyes. 

_Being a monster has its perks_ , Zack thinks, willing to invite in a bit of self-deprecation where no one will hear it.

Despite the worry gnawing at him at the fact that Cloud has yet to utter a word, he still appreciates the peace granted to them, hidden away beneath Shinra’s very nose. He misses the open sky, but it is a small sacrifice compared to all they have surrendered. Perhaps, one day, it will be safe enough to brave leaving the city altogether―if they remain unobtrusive, there is the hope that Shinra’s eye will pass over them in favor of more enticing targets. 

Zack spares Cloud a solicitous look as they approach Sector 5’s collection of shops. The streets of the shantytown ahead appear empty, but Zack still pauses and taps Cloud’s forearm to call for a halt. Should someone step outside, he would rather avoid them; not only is he not in the mood to chat, but he is especially loath to explain the broadsword in his grip―or how he is able to wield it.

“I hope you’ve been paying attention,” Zack sing-songs quietly, pointing at the shops. “You can get some food for yourself here later. Dip into the gil Aerith lent us if you need to.” Cloud tilts his head at the ramshackle buildings, expression blank. When he glances at Zack with a frown, the latter shrugs, not particularly enthused by the state of the architecture either. “I know it’s kind of a maze down here, but please don’t get lost. You good to head back?”

After a moment, Cloud nods, pivots, and stuffs his hands in his pockets before puttering in the direction of the church. With a huff, Zack follows, crossing over to walk on Cloud’s right in case he needs to swing the sword. Absently, he wonders whether he should press Cloud further, encourage a word or two of reply, but he can already sense him coming down from the tension of the nightmare. 

_All in good time_ , he tells himself.

In the homestretch of their trek, Zack slows his pace―making certain that whatever scurrying he heard is not headed in their direction―and ends up a couple of steps behind Cloud. The new vantage point grants him a full view of his blond spikes, which sway to the rhythm of his gait. Seemingly still addled by sleep, Zack stares, hypnotized, until he finds himself humming the chocobo racing tune and is promptly struck by a vague sense of déjà vu. 

Then, before he can find his bearings, Cloud looks back at him and _beams_ , his smile only deepening as Zack stumbles. 

Righting himself, Zack chuckles nervously and then warily resumes the song, uncertain as to why it would elicit such a reaction but uncaring given the result. He cheerfully catches up to Cloud and then does a double take when he realizes that the blond has joined the impromptu performance. The notes are soft, but Zack can hear them even behind Cloud’s just-as-soft smile. 

The nave witnesses the final chords of their duet, echoing the sounds against the hollow ceiling. Side by side, Zack and Cloud walk down the aisle, heads raised as they listen to the remnants of the song disappearing. 

Shaking his head in astonishment, Zack grins and goes to rest the sword by their bedside. “Alright, time to start the day properly. Exercise and―” He huffs, feigning annoyance. “―the rest of the laundry. Gotta get that over with.”

When Zack turns around, Cloud is standing, once again, behind him. This time, Cloud does not retreat. Instead, he darts in and wraps his arms around Zack’s waist, squeezing tightly. He attempts to escape just as quickly, but Zack, having locked his own arms around Cloud’s shoulders, does not release him. He may be hesitant to instigate touch on every occasion the urge manifests, but he will not feel guilt for dispensing comfort, nor will he allow his friend to feel the same for requesting it. If Cloud reaches out, then Zack will damn well respond. 

“Thanks, Zack,” Cloud whispers as he relaxes into the embrace, his words muffled against his chest.

“Anytime,” Zack promises.

\--- 

Zack has not taken three steps from the front doors of the church when a familiar voice saying an innocent “hello” freezes him in place, ratcheting his pulse up to triple time. Zack damns himself for his foolishness―and then damns himself once more for good measure. He has made a fatal miscalculation. 

A figure walks into view, besuited and sharp. The man casts off the shadows of the slums as though shrugging off an elegant coat, perfectly at ease with or without it. He holds a package in his right hand, leaning it against his leg with careless grace. Given his attire, he should appear out of place among the wreckage and filth, but he is just at home here as anywhere else. 

“Tseng,” Zack says, unable to underline the name with any emotion but fear.

The leader of the Turks, stoic as ever, nods in acknowledgment. He wears the years well; if not for the fatigue engraved into the skin under his eyes, Zack would have assumed that no time had passed at all. But, that is not at all the case: five years down the line, Shina has not only betrayed Zack, but nearly succeeded in executing him. As such, Tseng will have to forgive him for not greeting him more warmly, past friendship notwithstanding. 

He cannot fathom how he forgot about Tseng’s connection to Aerith, the agent watching over her under orders of his employer. Zack…Zack had even asked Tseng to look after her before leaving for Nibelheim. How could he have forgotten this? And now, Zack might have unwittingly positioned them for an ambush. The church, the slums, Midgar… None of it had ever been safe. 

Zack settles into a battle-ready stance, painfully aware that he and some flimsy doors are the only things standing between Tseng and Cloud. His empty hands twitch in anticipation, longing for the sword that he left behind. At least it remains with Cloud, who will need it should Tseng prove to be the distraction that allows his colleagues to raid the church from the roof.

At that horrifying thought, Zack starts to sprint toward the doors, only to glance back, wild-eyed, when Tseng says, “I’m not here on behalf of Shinra.”

Tseng’s expression, Zack thinks, is free of falsehood, but everyone knows that the Turks are trained liars. As though conceding to the unreliability of that statement, Tseng shrugs. It is perhaps the most human gesture Zack has ever seen him make. “As far as the research division is aware,” he says, “the escaped samples have been terminated and their remains cremated.” 

Slowly, Zack turns to face Tseng in full. Anyone else would recoil at the agent’s clinical tone, but Zack cannot help but begin to relax, parsing the truth tucked behind the words. The “escaped samples” are, by all accounts, dead; Cloud and Zack, however, are very much alive. Nonetheless, Zack has learned to be cautious: taking the words of anyone from Shinra at face value has only led to trouble. 

“And the president? What does he know?”

If Tseng is impressed by the insight, then he does not divulge it. “President Shinra has not been briefed about the situation, but he has also―” Tseng pauses, tilting his head in consideration. “―requested that any reports relating to Professor Hojo’s activities be tabled unless they are of class-1 importance.” 

Zack inhales sharply, struggling even now to shake off the instinctive fear the scientist’s name evokes, but forces himself to focus. If what Tseng says is true, then that means he would wittingly lie on an official report to Hojo―that is, as long as he would not have to do the same to the president. The notion that the agent would even consider doing that for him is…rattling. Zack racks his brain, trying to remember if Tseng had ever owed him a favor, but he comes up blank. Could this about-face be a result of…guilt? 

“Heh, never thought I’d be happy about not being labeled ‘class-1,’” Zack admits, a tentative smile pulling at his mouth.

Surprisingly, Tseng mirrors him, the smile manifesting most in his eyes. 

Again, inevitably, Zack’s thoughts dart back to Cloud―who remains oblivious to the standoff occurring just yards away―and the imagined raid on the church. Could Tseng truly have approached him alone, without backup? Zack had scoured the site of their “termination” to confirm that there were no survivors, but Tseng cannot have been the only Turk to find the battlefield. Someone else must also know the truth.

“How can I trust that your people won’t tell anyone?”

“Although I report to the president, the Turks report to _me_. Regardless, only a select few know the situation,” Tseng assures, shaking his head. “As an extra precaution, I will also be taking over any and all surveillance of Aerith, for the time being.” 

Zack crosses his arms, his suspicion returning twofold. “What does Shinra want with her anyway? You never said.”

Tseng is quiet for a long time. Zack cannot tell whether he is formulating a response or simply refusing to answer, but, eventually, the agent’s mask of calm cracks. “Something that,” he murmurs, pressing two fingers against his temple, “I’ve begun to suspect Shinra should no longer be meddling with.” 

Zack nearly reels back at the admission, blinking rapidly in shock. No wonder Tseng is willing to lie to Hojo―if even the leader of the Turks has begun to question his superiors, then it cannot be denied that the company has begun to rot at the core. Has always been rotten, perhaps. Still, Tseng’s answer is not an _answer_ , so Zack makes a note to keep an eye on Aerith, lest the agent receive an order that he cannot ignore.

“Nonetheless,” Tseng continues, regaining his composure, “I would ask that you remain cautious. Especially when you go topside, avoid contact with both soldiers _and_ civilians as much as possible.” 

Zack huffs at the confirmation that Tseng must have been monitoring him since at least yesterday―if not the very moment he dragged himself and Cloud past Midgar’s gates. “I was gonna buy some sunglasses later,” he admits, not particularly willing to share that his telltale eyes almost blew his cover earlier. 

“That seems wise,” Tseng replies with a slow nod.

With that, Tseng falls silent, and Zack gives himself a few moments to decompress, wondering whether he can trust this man he once called friend, let alone his intentions. He cannot imagine how keeping their survival a secret could stand to benefit Tseng―that is, unless he wanted to keep them as evidence of Shinra’s wrongdoings, but that seems far-fetched even paired with Tseng’s misgivings. 

Fed up with trying to connect the dots himself, Zack raises his hands in entreaty and finally asks, “Tseng, why are you doing this?”

At first, Zack assumes that Tseng, observing the facade of the church, has not heard. When the agent finally answers, his gaze remains directed upward. “I take pride in my work. I am, if not the best, good at what I do.” He pauses, tapping the package slowly against his leg. “In my line of work, if you want to get ahead, you stop asking ‘why.’ Let’s just say that…this is the one ‘why’ I’m allowing myself.”

“I…see,” Zack murmurs, deliberating as to whether Tseng actually answered the question.

Tseng looks back and quirks a slight smile. Then, his eyes shift, refocusing on the doors behind Zack. Although he attempts to conceal it, Zack bristles where he stands, reacting purely on instinct. If Tseng is not yet attuned to the melody of Zack’s heart, he thinks with resignation, then this interaction will surely enlighten him.

“How is your friend doing?” Tseng asks, gesturing toward the church. “Cissnei mentioned the Mako poisoning.”

“He’s doing okay,” Zack answers slowly, wondering how much to disclose. To claim a full recovery after months of catatonia is likely suspect, but admitting to the symptoms could prove dangerous. Tseng can promise all he likes, but Zack will not even entertain the suggestion of sneaking Cloud into Shinra HQ for testing, even if it is to confirm that he is on the mend. Between him and Aerith, they can take care of him just fine. 

“Still tired, but he’s getting stronger every day,” he adds, only to hesitate before asking, “Does Cissnei know?”

Tseng nods, reaches into his pocket, and extends a folded paper. “She told me to give you this.”

Cocking his head, Zack closes the distance, grabs the note, and starts reading. 

_Z, did you really have to dispatch a whole troop? Do you know how much paperwork that entails? I’m going to be stuck behind a desk for weeks trying to cover this all up. That boy of yours had better be worth it. Gods, and I thought I was gay. –C_

Zack chokes on air and proceeds to have a coughing fit while Tseng looks tiredly on. When he has regained some semblance of composure, Zack, voice strained, asks, “Did you read this?”

“This was one personal affair I decided I did not need to investigate.” 

Squinting at the agent, Zack searches for any hint of knowing amusement, only to come up blank. If Tseng is lying, then he is at least being kind about it. Sighing, Zack crumbles the paper, tucks it into his pocket, and makes plans to burn it later. 

“I honestly don’t know if I should be thanking you right now,” Zack mutters. “Not for bringing the note. For everything else, I mean.” 

After all, although Tseng appears to be going out of his way to atone for Shinra’s betrayal, is that not something he should have done in the intervening years? Zack will not pretend that his own record is spotless―he blindly followed Shinra’s orders the moment he joined up―but, unlike him, Tseng had one eye open, if not both. Does that make Tseng more in the wrong, or are they equal accomplices to Shinra’s crimes?

Tseng glances down at the parcel hanging at his side, humming in acknowledgement. “If you’re going to thank me for anything, then it should be for this.” He holds out his arm, revealing said parcel to be a box-shaped envelope, the sort that can hold reams of paper.

Tentatively, Zack accepts it, unclasps the flap, and peers inside. He stills, breaths shallowing.

“Normally, we would have returned the letters to the sender, but given the circumstances of your ‘disappearance’―” Tseng sighs. “―we decided that destroying them was the preferable course of action. However, since they first came to me, I salvaged them.” Tseng pauses, presumably expecting a reply, but Zack cannot form a word, let alone a coherent thought.

“I should get back to my duties,” Tseng says after a moment, his voice reaching Zack as though from a distance. “But, before I go, I just… Zack, I wanted you to know that the Turks would have captured you alive.”

Zack lifts his head, forcing his thoughts to solidify. “Wouldn’t have let us go though.”

Unsurprisingly, Tseng’s expression shutters. With a parting nod, the agent turns and strides away, leaving him with nothing but an envelope containing the letters of a heartbroken woman. Zack clutches it tighter.

It burns his fingertips.

\--- 

In the end, Zack has no choice but to trust Tseng’s word, albeit begrudgingly. 

As soon as the agent left, Zack had charged back into the church under the pretense that he had forgotten to top up his water bottle, perfectly aware that Cloud had done so hours prior. He managed to give Cloud a scare, the blond startling out of a set of push-ups before stuttering in embarrassment, which Zack politely ignored in lieu of sweeping the space for danger. Having confirmed his safety, he then thanked Cloud for his forethought and promptly left. 

Although Zack longed to latch onto Cloud’s wrist and keep him close, he knows that flouncing him above the Plate can only lead to disaster. If the slums hold one Turk, then the city above must be teeming with them. Thus, Cloud is much safer alone and hidden away. Guilt ridden, Zack sends a mental apology to his friend, knowing that he will have to go without seeing the sky for much longer than Zack had anticipated. 

Now, parted from him, Zack cannot help but mull over the benefits of working above the Plate. For all that Binh provides a decent-enough wage and leftovers, these perks will not be so enticing if they get him caught. On the other hand, he doubts that there is much work to be found down in the slums―or, at least none that could provide more than table scraps, but that is perhaps his bias speaking. 

Zack shudders, failing to shrug off the prickle of an imagined gaze. He sits with his legs crossed on the edge of a concrete block, head ducked as he picks at his rice bowl. Beside him, Aerith dangles her feet against the side of the block, bumping it occasionally with her heels as she studies the fountain in the center of the Sector 1 plaza. 

She glances at him when he runs a hand across his neck, but he does not acknowledge her, too occupied with smoothing the short hairs standing up from his nape. After the years in the lab and the months in the wilderness, he cannot stand the prospect of being observed once again, even from a distance. To say that Zack has been at peace these last few days would be optimistic, but he has certainly felt much lighter. The return of this age-old weight is painfully unwelcome.

“I hadn’t seen Tseng in so long,” Aerith murmurs, forcing Zack to resurface from the well of his thoughts. She dips her head, fiddling with the basket in her lap. “It didn’t even occur to me to hide you somewhere else. I’m sorry, Zack. I should have realized.”

“Hey, hey, Aerith, please don’t do that,” Zack gentles, nudging her shoulder with his own. As of yet, he has not been able to look her in the face for longer than a few moments; the second he catches her green gaze, his thoughts fly to the letters waiting in the satchel resting at his hip. Still, at her pained apology, he makes an effort, keeping his eyes trained on the side of her face. 

“I didn’t think about it either―even though _I’ve_ been the one running away from them all this time.” Unable to hold a smile, Zack lets his exhaustion shine through, momentarily closing his eyes. “I don’t know why I let down my guard.” 

_Too distracted playing house with a responsive Cloud_ , drawls a particularly judgmental voice.

Inhaling sharply, Zack shakes his head. “Anyway, it’s done now. We can keep trying to own the blame, or we can move on.”

“You’re right,” Aerith agrees with a sharp nod, shifting to face him. “Let’s not waste time. Do you want to look for someplace safer?”

Glancing down at his food, Zack considers the option. It would perhaps be prudent―the world beneath the Plate is vast, after all―but Tseng would no doubt have his ways of finding them if he so desired, just to keep tabs on them. Putting in that extra effort with little to no results sounds…tedious. Besides, the stubborn part of Zack argues that they have already put work into making the rundown church more habitable, Cloud especially. It seems a shame to squander his endeavors so soon.

“I don’t think there’s a point.” Bitterly, he stuffs a snow pea into his mouth and chews methodically. He does not have much of an appetite, but he needs to keep his strength up, now more than ever. “If Tseng is telling the truth, then we are as safe as we can be in Midgar.”

Humming thoughtfully, Aerith tilts her head toward the plaza, her gaze catching on anyone lingering in their vicinity. He appreciates the extra pair of eyes, even if Aerith’s presence, for the first time in his life, does not wholly soothe him. Although he described Tseng’s visit in detail, he failed to mention two things: a since-burned note and a stack of letters, its contents unread. 

For a moment, he entertains the thought of telling her about the _something_ , but, just as quickly, he buries it away. He will read the letters first, he tells himself, gather a clearer picture of what he is walking into. Perhaps it is not a good sign that he is preparing himself for the conversation as he would for a battle, but Aerith deserves more than a half-hearted effort. After all, following that forehead kiss, Aerith has kept a polite distance between them, her manner friendly but not overly intimate. 

She is being kind enough to grant him time, which is a miracle in and of itself, as Zack has been running out of it from the very moment he became a fugitive. It was only when Cloud breathed life back into him that Zack stopped living on borrowed time, his clock rewinding. And yet, here he finds himself, restless and afraid―it seems like a sorry way to start his new life.

Zack unfolds his legs and drops them to dangle beside Aerith’s, sick of the jitteriness that has been plaguing him from the moment Tseng disappeared back in the shadows. If it would not attract undue attention, he would drop into a set of squats right in the middle of this plaza just to channel it somewhere. 

“I can’t imagine how hard it must be,” Aerith murmurs, her words barely decipherable over the din of the fountain, “to leave him behind right now.”

Slowly, Zack turns his head a few degrees toward his friend, forcing his features into a mask of indifference. He cannot predict what she wants to hear―if a response is indeed something she requires―so he remains silent, waiting. 

In turn, Aerith smiles and, inexplicably, rolls her eyes. “I just meant after the journey you had together. Since you’re used to looking after him, you must be worried.”

“Yeah,” Zack says after a strained moment, word coming out hoarse. “I doubt he appreciates me babying him, but it’s become second nature now.” As though in agreement, his mind provides a memory of this morning’s Cloud crying into his shoulder as he pinned Zack to the floor with his weight. It was only fair, he thinks, considering all the times that Zack clung onto a catatonic Cloud, hiding his tears behind a forearm. 

Glancing up at the overcast sky, Aerith taps a couple of fingers against her cheek. “When it’s been just the two of us, he’s never sounded annoyed when talking about you. Well,” Aerith amends, tilting her face against her hand, “except when he’s frustrated about you not taking care of yourself. He worries, too, you know.”

“But I, I take care of myself just fine?” Zack sputters, raising his palms in defense. _I have to_ , he adds to himself. While Cloud and Aerith are capable fighters, they cannot be vigilant every single moment―especially not Cloud, who might lose time. During those lapses, who else is going to protect him if Zack is not in top form?

“Of course,” Aerith placates. “But even when Cloud is fine, you worry about him anyway, right?”

“I―” Zack blinks rapidly, wondering if he has unwittingly stepped into a trap. “Yes?”

“There you go,” Aerith finishes with a sage nod, for all intents and purposes looking like she has solved a puzzle. On his part, Zack scratches the side of his head and decides to refocus on his meal. He only has so much time left before his evening shift.

“In that case, do you want me to spend less time at the church?” Aerith picks up a lily and spins it, scattering pollen. “So that Tseng doesn’t hang around as much, I mean.”

Mouth full of rice, Zack shakes his head as he hurries to swallow. “No way! You should be spending _more_ time at the church. I don’t like the thought of you being grabbed and us not even knowing.”

Dropping the lily back into its basket, Aerith sends him a broad smile, eyes sparkling. “That’s sweet, Zack. I’ll be honest―” She leans in and places a hand by her mouth in a faux whisper. “―Mom doesn’t like me spending time with you two, but she might calm down if she knows you’re looking out for me.”

“Still doesn’t trust SOLDIERs, huh?” Zack mutters. When Aerith shakes her head, he adds, “Good on her.”

“ _Ex_ -SOLDIER.” 

Zack lifts his head from where it had drooped and huffs tiredly at the iron in her gaze. “Yeah, alright. You can count on us, then. Ex-SOLDIER Zack Fair is on the job.” He pairs the last word with a floppy salute―too cautious to perform a textbook one in public―prompting a cascade of giggles from his friend. 

“I feel safer already. Shinra won’t stand a chance.” Aerith sighs, expression tingeing with melancholy. “Hopefully, it won’t be necessary. I’ve known Tseng a long time, and he’s never hurt me.”

 _Yet_ , says a third voice, one heard by both Zack and Aerith, but only acknowledged by the former.

Zack crosses his legs at the ankles and kicks the concrete block with his heels. “Tseng can’t ignore every order,” he warns lowly. 

Aerith knocks one of her feet against his in reprimand. “Well, we’ll just all have to promise to watch over each other, then! You watch over Cloud, I watch him when you’re gone, he makes sure you take care of yourself, and both of you keep an eye out for Tseng.”

“Oh?” Zack grins, loath to miss the chance to tease her. “You’re not planning to look after me?”

Aerith widens her eyes, inclining her head. “I think I’ll let Cloud take the lead on that. You’re a handful enough on most days.”

“Oh, _thanks_ ,” Zack blurts out with a laugh, flushing despite himself. 

Still, her words send him down a lane…he has never trodden. Zack channels so much of his energy into protecting others, but he has never imagined that for himself―has never fancied that he requires a protector. The notion of Cloud stepping into that role, however, does not repulse. If anything, it entices. Zack would like to inspect it from all angles, if from a neutral distance, as there is a danger in stepping closer with the intention to touch. He imagines that it would give to the pressure of his hand―like skin, toned and soft.

Zack closes his eyes. Breathes.

“We’ll all be okay, Zack,” Aerith says suddenly, quiet but assured.

As though waking from a dream, Zack slowly opens his eyes. Filled with a heretofore unknown calm, he sits upright and stares out at the plaza in wonder, barely registering the flow of passersby. He cannot wholly quell the uneasiness of being out in the open, but he is able to set his restlessness aside, if only for the moment. Is it…the thought of Cloud that did this? 

“We’re tougher than we look, like you said,” Aerith quips, knocking into his shoulder.

“Y-yeah,” Zack replies slowly, shaking off his reverie. “I just wish I was better equipped to deal with, with whatever might happen. I miss having my sword close.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Aerith hunches over and begins rifling through her flower basket. A moment later, she unearths her hand with a victorious laugh and spreads it out, revealing―Zack realizes after a stunned second―a folded pocketknife.

“Aerith, why do you have a knife?!”

“Why don’t _you_ have a knife?” she retorts, and, well, Zack does not have anything to say to that.

Rolling her eyes, Aerith deposits the aforementioned item into Zack’s lap, the latter fumbling to catch it before it drops to the ground. “It’s for you, silly. You can’t walk around with that huge sword without attracting attention.”

Curious, Zack opens the knife and inspects the six-inch blade. While the scuffed weapon could not deflect any Shinra bullets, the weight of it in his hand is a welcome comfort. It does not seem as much of a downgrade as simply an adjustment to a different way of life.

“No,” he agrees, folding and tucking it away, “I guess not.”

\---

The letters, confined within cardboard and glue, are hidden underneath the loose floorboard. The gifted bloom, wilted from its time in Zack’s pocket, joins them.

 _Just for a little while_ , Zack tells himself. 

\---

Zack wakes to his heart beating out of his chest, his mind drained of whatever nightmare visited him this night. Panting, he tilts his forehead against the softness of cloth and skin, but the touch does nothing to jog his memory. Any remaining details dissipate into the void of delirium while a sickly dread lingers in the air, diminishing the call to sleep. Then, as the latter quiets, he catches the tail end of a slithering thought: perhaps it was not, after all, his imagination that woke him.

Listening to the hitherto silent darkness, he pulls away from Cloud’s back and leaves the bed. Sword in hand, he prowls the perimeter of the church’s interior, unable to rest until he is satisfied that their sanctuary remains undefiled. No corner, doorway, or broken window is left unchecked. 

He loses track of time. 

When his heart has finally returned to a steady rhythm, he wanders back to their corner and grudgingly sets the sword aside. _Just a dream_ , he thinks. With a sigh, he crawls back underneath the covers, shuffling closer to his friend, only to promptly freeze, gaze fixed on the back of his blond head. Cloud, sleeping on his side, has…not moved since he left. 

Crowding in behind him, Zack grabs his arm, presses two fingers to his wrist, and waits, holding in a breath.

When the pulse comes in strong, Zack screws his eyes shut, exhaling, and finally lies down. He places his mouth against the fabric of Cloud’s shirt collar and presses down, feeling the knobs of his spine. Under his arm, Cloud shifts, releasing a faint sound as his fingers twitch above Zack’s.

Zack adjusts his embrace, nestling Cloud in closer until he settles. He begins to count the pulses in his wrist.

And count. And count. _And count…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The way Zack threads a needle is the way my mom taught me. Just like him, I suck at making knots.  
> \- Cloud: Fuck, Zack can’t know that I think he’s charming! *insults him* Nailed it.  
> \- As much as I would’ve liked to include more of Kunsel, we know so little about him that I could only fit him in as a brief mention. Also, given that Zack is hell-bent on avoiding Shinra, it doesn’t really make sense for him to reach out to Kunsel, especially if he doesn’t know how his friend would react. I know that Kunsel wrote Zack that one email, essentially declaring his loyalty to him, but there’s no way Zack would’ve had a phone after escaping Nibelheim. Shinra would have destroyed it. (He only has it in CC because of game mechanics, let’s be real.) Thus, Zack has not seen that email in this timeline, as depressing as that is. (Also, Kunsel, honey, maybe don’t use your work email to tell your friend you’d betray Shinra for him? Someone probably monitors these things. It’s SHINRA, for fuck’s sake.)  
> \- From the little that I’ve seen, it seems like the remake has made the slums under the Plate much sunnier than they have been previously portrayed. This fic reflects how they look in CC: dark even during the daytime (because symbolism).  
> \- I absolutely detest job searches and interviews. Since this fic is an escapist fantasy, there will be little to no job-related angst.  
> \- The scar on Cloud’s torso is the one he got from Sephiroth in Nibelheim. My headcanon for scars in this universe is that they only remain if the victim did not receive a potion quickly enough after being wounded. That is also why Zack does not have any lasting scars from “the price of freedom” battle―Cloud gave him the potions in time. (So, why does Zack have a scar on his face? He let it heal naturally because he wanted to keep it in tribute to Angeal, who inflicted the wound in the first place.)  
> \- Tseng is portrayed as more of an antagonist in FF7, but he does not come across as one in CC at all. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he and Zack are legit friends. Plus, it is canon that Tseng directed the Turks to try to find (save) Zack and Cloud before the Shinra army ambushed them, only to fail. I imagine that Tseng is excellent at compartmentalizing his emotions (he has to be, with his job), but that guilt would have weighed on him. Thus, because Zack survived, the Tseng in this fic is far more repentant and friendly. Zack just has that effect on people.  
> \- Yep, Cissnei is also queer. Everyone is queer. I cannot be stopped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings  
> \- Allusions to depression, including what could be interpreted as a brief instance of self-harm (knocking one’s head against the floor in frustration)

The days, as they are wont to do, begin to bleed together. And Zack, because he has little to no choice, shakes off the dread and strides onward.

Although the sensation of being observed never fully disappears, it settles, resigned to being largely ignored. Not once does Zack catch sight of Tseng again―not since the agent first announced his presence. He does not believe for even a second that this means Tseng has abandoned his surveillance, but he prefers this polite distance to the alternative of shadows flickering in his periphery. In these vacant intervals, he can make himself forget the threat of discovery.

Cloud, too, despite spending ample time with Aerith as she tends to her flowers, does not spot Tseng. While Zack’s gut reaction had been to keep Tseng a secret from him, he quickly realized that doing so could only foment resentment. Frankly, imagining the insult in Cloud’s eyes had been enough to convince him to speak the truth. He did not, however, disclose their entire conversation to a grave-faced Cloud, let alone the letters Zack had hidden away.

Regardless, it was easy to admit his concerns regarding Aerith, to ask his friend to watch out for her. It would not be so easy to admit that he now dreams about Cloud’s recapture almost nightly. Not to Cloud’s face, anyway. 

_Cloud can take care of himself_ , Zack reminds himself.

Still, even these nightmares become rote with repetition. In the midst of his fears drifting like autumn leaves back to the rippling surface of his subconscious, Zack is cast into the mold of a semi-normal life. He sleeps, dreams, sleeps, exercises, eats, works, eats, and repeats, basking in Cloud’s company every moment he has to spare. 

The limited time they have is never wholly enough to satisfy, but at least the fruits of his labor begin to conquer the empty spaces remaining on their pew. At first, it is just little things: a comb, a couple of pairs of sweatpants. Then, a second water bottle, a collection of utensils, and a few apples that will not immediately rot away. A spare shirt or two, a sweater. The last was an impulse buy: a black, long-sleeved one, intended for colder nights. Zack regretted it with every step he took home until he saw how the tailored sides hugged Cloud’s waist. It was only after Cloud glanced back expectantly that he realized he had not even thought to purchase something for himself.

All in all, it is not a perfect life, but―even with Shinra breathing down their necks, even with how often he misses Cloud, even with the guilt gnawing at him―it is _a life_. In comparison, it is more than Zack has had in months. Counting lost time, it yields more comfort than he has had in _years_. 

Zack smiles down at the stack of takeout containers in his arms as he nudges open the door, marveling at his haul. Although Mondays are his usual rest days, tonight, he has a rare evening off, Binh having decided to close the restaurant to celebrate an addition to his family. Normally, Zack would be fraying at the seams at the thought of losing half a day’s income, but, overcome with joy, his boss had granted bonuses to every employee. In another life, Zack might have refused, but these days, he inspects their growing stash of gil with cautious eyes. He knows when to accept a handout.

Still, even an ascetic life deserves an evening of indulgence.

“Are you sure I’m not imposing?” Aerith asks from where she stares up at the sign of a Wall Market diner. It is not the most extravagant place, Zack admits, but he is not quite so far gone as to buy an expensive feast from above the Plate. “I appreciate it, of course,” Aerith continues, glancing down at his laden arms, “but please don’t feel obligated to invite me!”

Zack tilts his head, struggling not to tip the boxes over as he begins to meander down the lane. “If you won’t let me pay you back for those gifts, then you have to let me do this for you. Besides, I told Cloud last night that I was gonna grab a nice dinner. He’ll be expecting you!”

The last, technically, is a lie. Although they _had_ planned to celebrate Zack’s night off with a wholesome meal, Aerith’s invitation is a last-minute addition. On his way back to the train station, Zack stumbled upon her during a moment of weakness, Aerith subtly pressing on her abdomen while projecting a tired smile at a passerby, lily in hand. That image alone had been enough to strike him with inspiration. Anyway, short of breaking into her house to smuggle in goods, Zack does not know how else to thank her. Since Cloud has not had any ideas of his own, he doubts that the blond will protest.

At Aerith’s groan, Zack glances over, raising his eyebrows in preparation for a fight. As soon as the “I don’t know if―” leaves her mouth, he shakes his head, nearly launching the topmost box off the side.

“Aerith, please, just…let us, let _me_ , thank you.”

_For your patience. For the distance. For understanding._

As Zack watches, Aerith slowly closes her eyes, huffs, and smiles. “Okay, _fine_. Yes, I would love to have dinner with you two.” She mirrors Zack’s delighted grin and then pointedly stares down at the boxes. “Do you want me to grab some of those before they end up on the ground?”

Zack lets loose a strained laugh and desperately asks, “Would you?” 

Nodding, Aerith draws them to one side of the path and proceeds to split the stack, grabbing the smaller, and therefore more accident-prone, boxes. The change in position grants Zack a new vantage point, and he smiles sheepishly as soon as he realizes which shop he faces. Perhaps it is not wise to splurge more than once in a single evening, but this particular item has been on his list for a long time, bolded and underlined thrice.

“Alright!” Aerith exclaims, straightening. “Ready to go?”

“Just one last thing,” Zack admits.

\---

The sunglasses’ temple tickles where it hangs tucked into the collar of Zack’s tank top, making his hands twitch where they grasp tonight’s dinner. It would have been undoubtedly easier to just slip his recent purchase onto the top of his head, but he had clipped the glasses into the fabric on a whim and has been unable to remedy this the entire journey home. After all, he and Aerith only have four hands between them, all of which are occupied. 

As such, it is the combination of this particular juggling act and his jovial mood that inspires Zack to kick repeatedly at the church doors, calling out, “Hey-o, Cloud! Little help!” Admittedly, Zack only realizes _after_ Cloud has slammed open a door, wide-eyed and panting, that he could have phrased that better.

Wincing, Zack smiles in apology and raises the food demonstratively. “Sorry, sunshine. I just meant my hands were full.”

Cloud slumps against the door and proceeds to massage the bridge of his nose, bringing Zack’s attention to the dampness of his forearms. Upon sneaking a peek inside the church, he zeroes in on the clothes drying along the backs on the pews, feeding upon the dying light.

“Oh, great! Thanks for doing laundry!”

“I…thought it’d be nice to not have anything hanging over us,” Cloud mutters and then drops his hand, finally noticing their third companion. “Oh, um. Hi, Aerith.”

“Hello, Cloud,” Aerith greets with a winsome smile. “Sorry about Zack.”

With a shake of his head, Cloud responds, “You get used to it,” and completely ignores Zack’s indignant protest. His gaze flits between the two stacks of containers as he steps backward from the door, making room. “Are you, ah―”

“Thanking Aerith for everything she’s done!” Zack quickly cuts in, walking past Cloud toward their pew. After a moment, the sound of padding feet picks up, following. “Remember? I mentioned it last night,” Zack adds slyly as he drops off their dinner. Straightening, he shifts the sunglasses hanging on his collar, finally soothing the bothersome itch, before turning around. A few feet away, bordered by rows of worn pews, Cloud and Aerith stand side by side, expressions blank. Curious, Zack tilts his head, tempted to ask what has them looking so off. 

“Y-yeah, of course,” Cloud replies, sharing a brief glance with Aerith. “Let me just finish this.” Cloud raises his arms pointedly, and Zack cannot help but glance down. He is wearing the sweater Zack bought him, he realizes, its cuffs rolled to his elbows. After trying it on the first time, Cloud set it aside―saving it until the weather required it, Zack assumed, or else not especially pleased with it. 

A swig of satisfaction pours into him upon seeing it donned, settling at the base of his spine. He might be smiling―he is not wholly certain what his brain has him doing. 

“Take your time,” Aerith assures, breaking Zack out of his entranced stupor. “We’ll just start setting up here.”

Cloud nods a few times in succession and then walks toward the washroom, almost clipping Zack on the way with how closely he passes. Zack is instantly struck by the scent of soap, so fresh that Cloud must have bathed not too long ago. If Zack were braver―or, rather, more reckless―he would catch his shoulder to stop him in his tracks and nuzzle his face into the space behind his ear, breathing in deep. 

Instead, not trusting himself, Zack turns away, crouches, and busies himself with gathering dinnerware. He will have to eat out of a box, he notes, registering that they do not have enough bowls for three. When a shadow falls over him, Zack glances up distractedly, only to do a double take.

Aerith, arms akimbo, stares down at him with a frown marring her features. “You didn’t have to lie about it, you know,” she hisses, tone heated. 

“I― What?” he blurts, nearly failing to whisper.

“About inviting me to dinner,” she clarifies, gesturing impatiently. “Cloud didn’t know about it. We could have done this another time, but now I’ve ruined your night.” 

“ _Whoa whoa whoa_ ,” Zack protests, raising his palms in entreaty. “No one’s night is being ruined. Yes, Cloud didn’t know, but we _have_ been wanting to thank you. And we have dinner every night,” he adds, brows furrowing. “There’s nothing to ruin? I just―” He pauses, huffing out an embarrassed breath as he buries a hand into his hair. “I was just trying to make it less awkward. That obviously failed.”

An errant thought is niggling at the back of Zack’s head, pointing out every gleam and crease in Aerith’s face and translating it into intelligible words. It whispers, _She thinks that you and―_ before Zack firmly waves it away.

Slowly, Aerith loosens her arms, only to cross them, narrowing her eyes. Zack, painfully aware of the sensation of being caught in one’s crosshairs, lets loose a tremulous grin. With that, the pall abruptly lifts as Aerith smiles and drops down to start unpacking boxes. “You’re really bad at this,” she remarks nonsensically before falling silent. 

As soon as Zack gathers enough wits to question what she is referring to, Cloud reenters the nave, damp shirt held between his hands. “What are we having?” he asks, arranging it alongside the rest of the laundry.

“Sushi!” Zack exclaims, choosing to pretend like the previous conversation never occurred. “We’re going to eat ourselves sick,” he adds mischievously when Cloud putters over and leans in to inspect the open boxes. 

Cloud snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not cleaning up the consequences.”

Zack hangs back as Aerith and Cloud make a pass through the assortment of sushi, observing which rolls Cloud prefers. At the diner, Zack had nearly ordered the BBQ plate as well, but just the thought of so much meat made his guts gurgle. He is still taking care to ease them into a steady diet―joking aside, he would rather not end this night clutching his torso.

As soon as his friends shuffle away, Zack swoops in and grabs one of the emptier containers, claiming it as his bowl. Focused on combing through the spread, he does not hearken to the sound of Cloud speaking Aerith’s name, but he does still when he catches him murmuring, “Do you two want privacy, or…?”

Zack’s heart plummets, fingers fumbling as he nearly drops a nigiri. He barely registers Aerith answering, “Don’t be silly―this is a group dinner,” as he ducks his head and pretends to pay particular attention to the maki rolls. Misunderstandings aside, perhaps Aerith had, after all, seen what Zack had not. Cloud writes himself off so easily; of course his immediate reaction upon them having company is to assume that he is not wanted. Assume that he…that he is the third wheel.

Blinking rapidly, Zack realizes―remarkably late―that Cloud must believe that he still harbors romantic feelings for Aerith. Why would he not? Zack was not especially secretive about Aerith’s existence when they were working for Shinra, and although Zack has made no recent overtures to her, Cloud has not been privy to _all_ their interactions. Zack has cherished every moment of rekindled friendship he has shared with Aerith, but that closeness must, from the outside, appear suspect.

And Aerith, because Zack has been so closed off about his feelings―his _lack_ of feelings―Aerith must think…

 _What_ does _she think?_

Zack nearly groans as he stands and finds Cloud perched on the steps to the altar and Aerith kneeling beside her flowers. Shifting awkwardly, he plasters on a grin and then hops over to sit perfectly in the middle of his two friends, unwilling to declare fealty to either side. All Zack wanted was to thank Aerith for the good she has done them, and now, he is dealing with yet another crisis. 

After all, why would Cloud’s friend, one who _absolutely_ has no interest in him, approach him and assure him that he has no romantic intentions toward their mutual friend? It is not exactly something one says out of the blue without ulterior motives. Regardless, he cannot stomach the thought of Cloud thinking himself unwelcome, so, rallying, Zack settles more comfortably on the floor and smiles at the blond hunched over his dinner. Secrecy and paranoia be damned: Cloud needs to understand that he belongs here, at Zack’s side. 

Extending his leg, he playfully nudges at Cloud’s foot. “Did you have a good day so far?”

Cloud shrugs, not raising his head. “Sure.” 

“Anything to report? Break my squat record yet?”

“Nope.”

Feeling eyes on the back of his head, Zack bites his lip, considering. He has long since become familiar with Cloud’s newly arisen prickliness, but the blond is usually far more receptive to Zack’s needling. Deciding to back off for the moment, he stuffs a roll into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he glances at Aerith. The woman in question grants him an unimpressed look, cheek distended with food.

Seemingly taking pity on him, Aerith finishes her mouthful and says, “This is delicious.” Zack perks up, mentally tallying that he is finally catching up on his debts. “I’ll have to make you two something as thanks.”

“Aw, come on!” Zack whines, not even acting as he drops back and slams against the floor. “This is supposed to be us thanking _you_. Are we never gonna escape this cycle of kindness?”

Distantly, Cloud chuckles. “Look who’s talking.”

Frowning, Zack goes to turn his head toward him when Aerith appears in front of the rafters above him, her hand outstretched. He lets her pull him up as she says, “We’re friends. Friends do nice things for each other. Stop making it into a _thing_.”

Huffing, Zack waves his hand as soon as Aerith releases him. “Fine, _friend_ , even if you don’t keep your promises.” At that, Aerith clasps her hands behind her back and hums questioningly. “ _Meddling_. You said you wouldn’t meddle.”

“I don’t think cooking counts as meddling,” Cloud chimes in. When Zack looks over, he finds that Cloud has set aside his bowl and interlocked his fingers, dangling them alongside his spread knees. His eyes, Zack observes with a loss of breath, are bright and engaged, tracking the scene before him. 

“You― _You_ are not helping,” Zack manages as Aerith, giggling, sits back down by her food.

Uncaring, Cloud lifts a shoulder. His gaze slips downward and promptly catches. “You got sunglasses?”

“Oh―” Zack flicks at the pair, momentarily knocking them out of place. “―yeah, to hide the eyes. Y’know, to avoid attention. I thought they might help.”

At that notion, Zack is visited by a sudden and distant memory of Cissnei complaining about one of her colleagues. He cannot recall the man’s name, but he is hit with a vision of sunglasses―goggles?―a ponytail, and a headache, as well as the distinct impression that this was a man trying far too hard to appear like a badass―or else like too much of a pain in the ass to bother with. Inspired, Zack sits up, shifting one leg underneath him.

“Hey, Aerith. Do you have a spare hair band I could borrow?”

Smiling coyly, Aerith pulls her braid over her shoulder and fiddles with the end. “Not on me, but you can have this one.” She tosses an alarmingly pink hair band in his direction, and Zack says a sincere thanks when he catches it. Beggars cannot be choosers, and at least pink matches well with black.

Not having ever made a habit of tying up his hair, Zack struggles at first, the spikes escaping his grip as soon as he attempts to roll the band from this wrist. Once, he nearly manages, only to realize that he forgot to gather the characteristic lock of hair hanging over his face. Still, when he is finished, he has a particularly spiky tail sticking out the back of his head, threatening to escape the band. It pulls oddly at his scalp, but it is simply another change he will need to adapt to, just like the sunglasses he slots across his eyes. 

Hopping to his feet, Zack spreads out his arms and spins once with questionable grace. “Well? Does it pass inspection?”

Aerith, nodding in approval, says, “It’ll do.”

Cloud, surprising no one, frowns up at him and quips, “You look like an asshole.”

With a snort, Zack sputters into laughter, covering his mouth as Aerith’s faux gasp escalates his mirth. Only when tears threaten to escape his eyes does he rein himself in. “Great!” he finally exclaims, voice breaking as he struggles to catch his breath. Beyond the blur of saltwater, he can spy the smile tugging at the corner of Cloud’s mouth. “As long as I don’t look like myself, it’s perfect.”

“Y-yes,” Cloud agrees unconvincingly, to which Zack points a single threatening finger, daring him to continue that trail of thought even as he fails to hide his grin.

“Just you wait until my next payday,” Zack warns, planning another purchase. Cloud perhaps does not need a pair of sunglasses considering all the time he spends away from town, but they should not devolve into carelessness. Zack has avoided detection the past couple of weeks solely because he limited his interactions to the employees at Binh’s, and even then, he has mostly kept to himself, which has been a challenge in and of itself. “You’re getting your own pair, sunshine. That way, we can _both_ look like assholes!”

“No, thanks,” Cloud answers, face shuttering. “I’m not gonna wear sunglasses under the Plate.”

Zack chuckles gamely, only for his grin to slip away when Cloud’s expression remains dead serious. “Whoa, hey, Cloud, you _gotta_ wear the glasses. People will notice!” he urges, remembering a stranger’s gaze drawn to the lily at Zack’s ear. Cloud does not even need a flower to draw attention: his hair alone is alluring enough.

“Not if I never look up,” Cloud concludes, looking, admittedly, down at his hands, prompting Zack’s heart to bleed at the matter-of-fact tone. Then, just as dryly, Cloud adds, “No one would think I’m a SOLDIER anyway.” 

Before Zack can even think to rush to Cloud, beckoning to Aerith to hem him in on his other side, the blond grabs his bowl and rises. 

“Excuse me,” Cloud mutters before heading toward the washroom. He quickens his pace as Zack belatedly stands, not even noticing as the latter reaches an arm out toward him. Zack’s fingers curl into the empty air. The gesture feels strangely familiar. 

When Cloud is out of sight, Zack slowly pivots away from where his pleading gaze caught on the closed door and sets it on Aerith instead. She shakes her head, seemingly at a loss. With halting movements, he reaches up and pulls away the sunglasses, inspecting them suspiciously. “Did I…do something?”

“I’m not sure,” she whispers, eyes brimming with concern. “But if he needs space, maybe you should give him that.”

“Yeah,” Zack agrees, voice hoarse. “Okay.”

\---

Zack drifts out of a dream, dragging, in his wake, a vision of a Mako-drenched assembly line rolling out perfect SOLDIERs. Only half aware, he blinks slowly to draw away the disturbing images before blearily registering the dimness of night. After detecting no threat, he melts back into the blanket-covered floor, willing to risk another nightmare for the sake of rest. 

His subconscious, however, has other plans. Restless even in slumber, it diverts his attention to the calm, uneven breathing emanating from beside him. Curious, Zack opens his eyes, cranes his head upward, and immediately stills. Cloud, his back against the floor, is currently winning a staring contest against the ceiling, eyes glowing faintly in the gloom, his features only just visible. Zack does not like his blank expression, but his hackles lower as soon as the blond absently scratches at his arm. 

“Can’t sleep?” Zack asks quietly. 

If Cloud is startled, he gives no indication save for a slow blink. “‘M just thinking,” he replies, voice mirroring Zack’s. 

Lying on his side, Zack bends an elbow underneath his head to keep his neck from cramping. He barely stifles a yawn, clenching his jaw. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“Nothing important. Just…things.”

Although the gesture will be lost to Cloud’s inattention, Zack raises an unimpressed brow. Then, knowing just where to aim to be particularly annoying, he prods Cloud in the side. If Aerith was correct in that Cloud was not wholly happy with him this past evening, then Zack can only sink so much lower in his friend’s esteem. He might as well push for answers. 

“What things?” he asks and then prods him again when Cloud remains silent.

Grunting, Cloud swats at Zack’s hand, nearly landing a blow as Zack retreats. “Lay off.” 

“Nope!” 

Typically, Zack tries to give Cloud plenty of space to stew, but the latter then does just that: sulks and sulks. At some point, the wall has to come down―unless Zack ignores the barrier entirely and hops it. Cloud, he suspects, needs to talk out his problems, lest he lose himself to his demons. How fortunate, then, is Cloud for having as maddeningly persistent a friend as Zack. 

“I’m just gonna stay here, staring at you, until you tell me what’s wrong,” Zack declares diplomatically. “Trust me: it’ll make you feel awkward sooner than the other way around. I can go all night,” he adds, remembering all the times he forwent sleep to watch for Shinra patrols.

Cloud huffs out what almost sounds like a laugh, but he quiets just as quickly before closing his eyes. Not to be deterred, Zack settles in, estimating that it will be a few minutes before his friend begins to fidget. As much as Cloud defaults to silence, Zack has gleaned his love-hate relationship with attention. Although he craves it, he shies away from it in the same breath. It casts their first meeting in Modeoheim in an endearing light; perhaps it is a small miracle that Zack reached out and found Cloud on the other end of his smile. 

Watching, Zack swallows as Cloud shoots him a swift glance, his eyes bottomless with an unreadable emotion.

_Gods, Cloud, just look at you._

Zack shakes off the tender thought, blaming the secrecy of darkness for the slipup. Forcing himself to focus, he smiles softly in encouragement, to which Cloud releases a capitulating sigh. 

“I lost time again today, after you’d gone,” Cloud admits, voice perfectly even. “Just for a minute. I was setting out lunch, and then I was standing by the sink.”

Zack bites his lip and considers. It would be so easy to slip into overbearing concern, but Cloud’s patience with him is undoubtedly running thin. So, instead of ambushing him with his fears, Zack tempers his tone and asks, “Does that worry you?” 

“I’m―” Cloud pauses, his brows furrowing. “―not sure. It _does_ , of course it does, but…”

“But?” Zack urges after a pensive silence.

“It’s like I can’t summon the energy to care.” Cloud drops his gaze, picking at the edge of the blanket with a stuttering hand. “Almost ever since I woke up from the Mako, I’ve felt e-emptier. Or, I don’t know… Dulled.”

For the moment, Zack does not allow himself to react to the words. The clang of his heart breaking in sympathy resounds in its hollow atriums, but he sets these feelings aside. Instead, he absorbs the words and _thinks_. 

Cloud’s growing disillusionment with Shinra, though not as stark as Zack’s own, has been notable. Tucked into his frowns and tired silences, it must have crept up on him in waves. First, Sephiroth. Then, imprisonment and experimentation, topped off with an attempted execution. Although Zack does not miss the worshipful stars that would spark from his friend’s eyes, Cloud himself must be wondering where they have gone. He dreamed of SOLDIER for so long, only to be granted his wish under the worst circumstances. Anyone in his place would feel…well, would struggle to feel. 

Feeling nothing must be easier than feeling everything.

“Never mind,” Cloud mutters, recapturing Zack’s attention. “I don’t wanna talk about this.” So very tellingly, he rolls onto his side, presenting Zack with the expanse of his back. Despite the fraught atmosphere, Zack has to force down a fond chuckle at the sullen slope of Cloud’s shoulders. 

Then, affection souring, Zack sobers at the sudden thought that, alongside everything Shinra has done, _he_ might be just as much to blame for Cloud’s turmoil. 

Largely at Shinra’s hands, Zack has suffered pain and betrayal and grief, but he cannot profess to ever experiencing a _lack_ of feeling before. However, when something does eat away at him, leaving him restless, he turns to work, sweating the emotions off mile by mile. If action can silence his darker moods, then perhaps it can give rise to lighter ones just as well. 

Yet, Cloud, whom Zack asked to remain in one place with little to nothing to do… No wonder he has spiraled into numbness. Involuntarily, Zack shudders at the thought of being stuck in one place for days on end with few distractions to placate him. At least the scientists kept them mostly sedated during those four years of captivity. In his attempt at kindness, at caution, Zack might have done worse by Cloud than Shinra had. 

If forgiveness is unattainable, then the only remedy for guilt is atonement, so Zack scoots in a couple of inches toward his friend and _tries_. 

“Cloud, I…I’m not gonna pretend to know how you feel―” _Or don’t feel._ “―but when I’m upset, the worst thing I can do for myself is nothing.” When that yields no reaction, Zack revisits the words and concludes that they reek of accusation. The mistakes rack up, and Cloud’s muscles only tense further. 

It takes everything in Zack not to shift that much closer.

“Not to say that this is your fault! I just… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you stay in this church for so long. I wasn’t thinking. I mean, I was, but not about that,” Zack blathers, cursing himself even as the words stumble out of him. “I was so worried about making sure that we’d be okay, that _you’d_ be okay, that I didn’t realize how it would affect you.”

Cloud cranes his head back, just enough that Zack can make out the shell of his ear. “I don’t think that’s why I’m like this.”

“It can’t be _helping_ ,” Zack rebuts, rage at his own actions burning the edges of the syllables. 

Turning away, Cloud shrugs and offers little else. This time, Zack allows the silence to fester. The isolation, indeed, cannot be helping, but neither are his attempts to reconcile the divide. He must be going about this the wrong way. He cannot imagine that he would appreciate _more_ inane advice if he were in Cloud’s position, so he will not be repeating that blunder. Sympathy, then? Or distraction? The latter is suited to Zack, but he doubts that setting the problem aside would work well for Cloud.

Embroiled in thought, Zack startles when Cloud knocks his temple against the wood floor, the sound echoing despite the deadening fabric. Yelping in dismay, Zack shifts over to prevent any more harm, only to still when Cloud, voice crumbling like sandstone, whispers, “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

And Zack―miraculously, inexplicably―realizes that he knows exactly how to respond.

“I feel different, too,” Zack reveals, holding the words in his mouth like a secret. He thinks of the miles he trekked with an unresponsive Cloud on his back, of the nights spent monitoring him for hypothermia, of the food he stole for them, the soldiers he freely killed… “You weren’t awake to see it, but I had to adapt to…a lot. There’s no way I came back the same. But you know what? That isn’t a bad thing. It doesn’t make me _not myself_.” 

Zack’s hands are shaking. He wills them to stop.

“Cloud. You’re still you, even if you need to change with the world.” Zack reaches out, hesitates, and then gently rubs a knuckle between Cloud’s shoulder blades, feeling the ridges of his spine. “I’ll like any version of you.” 

In between one blink and the next, Zack finds himself bowled over onto his back by an armful of Cloud, who curls into Zack ever so effortlessly. Overcome with relief, Zack cinches the embrace, wrapping his arms around Cloud’s back, and leans a temple against the side of his head. Cloud, in turn, nestles closer, his grip on Zack’s shoulder betraying his SOLDIER strength. Zack considers warning him against losing control, but he has been around enough Thirds to take Cloud’s inexperience in stride. Instead, ignoring the pressure, he closes his eyes and concentrates on Cloud’s other hand instead. It rests on the slope of skin above his clavicle, featherlight and warm.

“Zack?”

“Mm?” He turns his head, touching the tip of his nose to the lobe of Cloud’s ear.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” Cloud mutters into Zack’s shirt, relaxing his death grip.

Opening his eyes, Zack smiles. “Me, too, sunshine. You’d be a complete grump without me.” He neither mentions nor considers what he himself would be, would become, without Cloud in his life.

As awaited as dawn, a trickle of amusement sneaks into Cloud’s tone when he admits, “I’m already a grump.”

 _At least he’s self-aware_ , Zack thinks as he lets out a hum. “Only about three quarters of you.” Before Cloud can ask, Zack lifts a hand and combs it through the largest spike of blond hair he can find. “The last quarter is your hair.”

Zack grins when Cloud barks out a startled laugh. He exploits the distraction to sneak in a hand to rub at Cloud’s left temple—soothing the self-inflicted hurt away—before tucking it back against the blond’s spine. Cloud does not question the gesture, but he does sigh and slowly prop himself up. Zack only refrains lamenting the loss because Cloud does not retreat far; his hands remain in place on Zack’s shoulders. 

“Zack, I’ve been—” Cloud glances sideward, brows furrowed, before once more meeting his gaze. “—wanting to ask. Are _you_ okay?”

Any other time, Zack would be distracted by the lack of distance between them, but the question refocuses his attention, leaving him puzzled. “Am I—what?” Zack almost threads a hand into his hair from a force of habit, but stops himself just as he goes to lift his arm, unwilling to surrender their loose embrace. 

Yes, Zack is okay. Zack is okay because he does not have the option to _not_ be okay. 

Zack raises his brows. “Yeah, of course I’m okay, sunshine. Maybe I don’t have all my strength back yet, but I’m getting there.”

Eyelids lowering, Cloud huffs, the breath of air causing Zack’s errant lock of hair to bob gently. “I didn’t mean physically, asshole,” Cloud chides, albeit gently. “Y’know, you’re not as good at playing dumb as you think you are.”

Zack pauses, considers, and then lets out a playful smile. “Have you ever considered that I _am_ that dumb?”

“Yes,” Cloud says. “Multiple times.”

“Ouch!” Zack exclaims, laughing, before he sobers, discomfited at being backed into a corner. While keeping mum is not fair to Cloud, especially after his confession, Zack does not know how to begin to parse the state of his mind, let alone his feelings. He could not, for instance, explain the complicated happiness pooling in the seat of his heart, as expounding on said happiness would lead to questions he is not yet prepared to answer. 

Still, he owes Cloud at least a modicum of a response, so, plastering on a wry smile, he says, “Okay, fine. I’ve had a rough time adjusting, especially after almost, uh, dying, but I’m doing better now. I really am feeling okay.” 

“You have nightmares,” Cloud says point-blank, not having the decency to phrase it as a question.

Zack blinks, shutters his expression, wonders just when Cloud clued into that detail, and then remembers that he himself revealed it. “All soldiers have nightmares. I’ve never woken up kicking and screaming, so they can’t be that bad, right?” 

“Neither have I,” Cloud says, and, well, he has a point. Cloud has indeed never kicked him. Instead, he woke up panicked and searching Zack’s chest for gushes of red, but Zack does not wish to point that out and prolong this conversation. 

“Sunshine, I’ve always had an overactive imagination. Please don’t worry about it. It’s normal. I even—”

“What do you dream about?” Cloud interrupts quietly. “Besides Shinra capturing us.”

_Shinra capturing us. Shinra capturing you. Dying. Angeal. The green of Mako. Fire. Sephiroth. Corpses. Blond-haired corpses. Aerith. You. Being hunted. Dying, and you following right after. You. You. You._

“Cloud, can we please try to get some sleep?” Zack whispers, surprised at the pained undercurrent of the words escaping his mouth.

Slowly, Cloud tilts his head and nods. Relieved, Zack waits for him to roll off and away from him―eager to bury into his back―when Cloud simply ducks back into their embrace, propping his head against Zack’s shoulder.

Mouth falling open, Zack otherwise stills, his hands hovering uncertainly above Cloud’s back. He diverts all of his energy into reaching for the reins to his hope, which has sped away from him in a reckless gallop. As such, he does not notice when Cloud, too, stills, but he snaps back to attention when his hands make contact with fabric.

“Sorry, I thought—” Cloud mutters, drawing away farther.

Although the _something_ panics in anticipation, Zack cannot bear the thought of turning Cloud away. So, with a hastily blurted “nope, get back here,” he pulls Cloud back into his arms and shifts, adjusting them to a more comfortable position on their sides. He will no doubt wake to a dead arm, but what is another small sacrifice to pay?

“Sunshine, you can’t just promise cuddles like that and then take them away. You are officially banned from, ah—” Zack pauses, tripping over his words as he feels Cloud’s fingers curl into his waist. “Banning cuddles.”

The line of Cloud’s nose brands the underside of Zack’s chin as he lifts his head. “Got it. No banning cuddles,” Cloud says, voice soft, before settling back down.

 _I’m not gonna be able to sleep_ , Zack thinks as his eyelids droop closed.

If Zack dreams again that night, he does not remember it.

\---

Zack yawns widely as he buckles his satchel closed, still shaking off the dregs of a sudden awakening. In the past few weeks, without fail, he rose every morning of his own volition, his internal clock nudging him awake. This morning, however, Zack blearily opened his eyes to a weight on his chest and a particularly infernal beeping emanating from the wristwatch, which had been set to a precautionary alarm he had never before required. 

Said weight on his chest groaned into his neck and flung out an arm to silence the high-pitched sound before burying back into Zack’s side, not even bothering to recover the blanket from where they must have tossed it away sometime after overheating. Zack only feels a hint of shame at the ten minutes it took for him to finally slip out from underneath Cloud and escape to the washroom. 

Looping the satchel across his shoulders, Zack spares a subtle glance at Cloud, who is currently inspecting the laundry hanging along a pew and gathering anything that appears to have dried. He is wearing the blue shirt Aerith had gifted him, having changed into it before bed; Zack tells himself that he was not disappointed to see the long-sleeved sweater set aside once more. 

The line of clean clothes is yet another reminder of this morning’s conversation. Now that the most pressing chore is over and done with, there is little else left to do around here. Cleaning is not an option either, as both he and Cloud spent several mornings tidying the back of the nave—mostly heaving out debris and sweeping with some borrowed supplies. Even then, it was largely mindless work only made enjoyable thanks to company. Still, it was better than nothing. Zack is not so naive to think that a few sincere words and a hug will fix Cloud’s problems, but perhaps his advice does have merit, as it subsists on _action_. Zack understands action better than any other language, and Cloud, quiet as he is, might be just as fluent.

And so, already tallying the risks, Zack makes his way over to Cloud and drops a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Hey, sunshine, I—” He breaks off when Cloud glances up, the blond looking far too refreshed for someone who stayed up a fair portion of the night counting rafters. 

Zack clears his throat, determined to try again. “Uh, not to point out the behemoth in the room, but do you want to go above the Plate with me today? You know, so you’re not stuck here,” he clarifies, waving a pointed hand, and then remembers how Cloud tensed at his “helpful” suggestions earlier. “Not that you have to! Just, if you’re bored, or… There’s probably not a lot to do there, honestly, but maybe I could convince Binh to give you my job for today, and I could hand out some menus, and—”

“ _Zack_ ,” Cloud interrupts, and Zack mentally thanks him for stoppering the words he himself could not restrain. “Thanks, but there’s actually something I want to do today.”

“You do?” Zack blinks. “What?” he tacks on excitedly, not wanting Cloud to mistake his initial surprise for judgment. He is more than willing to support Cloud in whatever way he needs, but he suspects that Cloud making his own decisions rather than relying on Zack’s is the healthiest path. This must be a positive sign.

As Zack awaits a response, Cloud glances sideward in a not-at-all suspicious manner; to make matters worse, he releases a tiny smile when he meets Zack’s gaze. “Something.”

“ _Clouuud_ ,” Zack groans out and touches his fingers to his temple, massaging.

“I promise I’ll tell you later,” Cloud allows and pats at Zack’s forearm, bringing attention to the fact that he has yet to release the blond. Zack does so reluctantly, outwardly pouting at the reticence and inwardly panicking at whatever he is planning. Cloud cannot even be convinced to wear sunglasses _for his own safety_. 

“Well, can you also promise you’ll be safe?” Zack asks, struggling to keep the demand from his voice.

Rolling his eyes, Cloud draws an X over his heart before wandering over to their pallet. “I’ll walk you to the station,” he calls, not doing anything to assuage the dread roiling in Zack’s guts with his suggestion. Still, a walk and simultaneous tour would benefit Cloud, especially if he plans to traipse around the nearby sectors, as the slums are difficult to maneuver at best. Zack _himself_ has almost gotten lost a couple of times. And, well, if Zack ends up returning to an empty church, it might just splinter the remains of his sanity, so…train station it is.

“Yeah, alright,” Zack agrees, calling forth a smile to hide his anxiety. “That’d be nice.” 

Whether Zack’s smile was sincere matters little when Cloud beams back at him. Whatever falseness it held, it no longer does. A walk with his sunshine _does_ sound nice, after all. 

“Let me just hide the sword before we go,” Cloud says, lifting the Buster Sword from its place by their bedside and heading toward the washroom.

“Sure,” Zack mutters, distracted by how easily Cloud wields the sword. Watching the line of his retreating figure, Zack cannot say that the weapon does not suit him, but the sight is uncanny given Cloud’s size. If not for his eyes, he could be mistaken for a civilian, especially if he were to stand by Zack for comparison. It is yet another nod to the wonders—dangers?—of Mako enhancements. 

Mako… What _is_ Mako? Zack understands that it is a natural resource, but Shinra is not and never was generous in divulging its secrets, so his knowledge stops there. It might be a poison, as it nearly drove Cloud into a coma. Judging by its glow, it might even have radioactive properties. Hell, maybe all the SOLDIERs are infertile as a result of the enhancements. Zack would not put it past Shinra to hide that little tidbit underneath a clause or two.

Drifting out of his reverie, Zack frowns when he realizes that Cloud has been absent for a while, but when he moves to check on him, the blond reappears at the door. His expression is…odd. If Zack did not know better, he would describe it as haunted. However, just as quickly as Zack notes it, the emotion is wiped away. 

“Hey, you okay?” Side-eyeing him, Zack asks, “You didn’t just lose time, right?”

“No,” Cloud replies, shaking his head. “I just got distracted by something—it’s fine.” Before Zack can push any further, he asks, voice painfully even, “Ready to go?”

Zack has already filled his daily quota for asking invasive questions, so he bites back his concern, slides on his sunglasses, and nods.

\---

Unsurprisingly, Zack spends the entire day caught in the ebb and flow of worry. During his lunch shift, he nearly let slip a total of two plates and three glasses, after which Binh took him aside to ask whether everything was alright at home. Zack let loose a nigh on hysterical laugh at that, but quickly assured Binh that he had just not slept well the night before. 

This is how Zack finds himself trudging through the Wall Market, saddled with leftovers and idly wondering just how Binh managed to kick him out of the restaurant a few hours early with mutterings of sick pay and the importance of rest. Zack must have been a saint in a past life; there is no way he could have earned such an understanding boss in this lifetime. Still, he does feel admittedly drained. If not for the Mako keeping him upright, he suspects that he would be coming down with something right now. Regardless, Zack knows not to complain, for leaving early means that he can sooner confirm Cloud’s safety, having last seen him at Sector 7’s station. 

_At least he’d paid attention to our route_ , Zack thinks with resignation. Whatever good mood Cloud had woken up in quickly dispersed as soon as they left the church. It does not bode well for his theory that variety and action will nudge Cloud toward healing, but he cannot make conclusions based on one circumstance. Hopefully, Cloud will get a taste for it and try again. 

Lost in thought, he does not initially register the pair of feet trailing behind him. As soon as he does, however, he forces himself not to tense even as his heart begins to beat in double time. Whoever is tailing him knows how to remain just out of Zack’s peripheral vision, so, turning his head, Zack is wholly expecting to encounter Tseng. 

Therefore, it stands to reason that Cloud is the one following him, his face an utterly placid mask. 

“ _Gods_ ,” Zack bites out, grinding to a halt while grabbing at his chest. “Don’t _do_ that.” 

“Sorry,” Cloud says, not sounding sorry at all, “but you can’t lecture me about paying attention and then not follow your own advice.” 

Zack winces, acknowledging the point. As Cloud’s head swiveled with how quickly he took in the sights of the Wall Market, Zack did indeed list off all manner of things to watch out for in the slums. He even bemoaned the indignity of being pickpocketed by a child once, made all the worse when said child complained about how little Zack had in his wallet. Aerith had witnessed that little interaction, too, but he refrained from mentioning that detail, embarrassed enough as it is. 

“ _Fine_ , fine, I’ll pay attention,” he mutters, fiddling with his sunglasses. As an afterthought, he perches them on top of his head. No one, he thinks, should notice his eyes if he keeps them trained on Cloud.

“Course you will.” Cloud steps up to Zack and nudges them along. “So, you’re out early. Everything okay at work?”

“Yeah, Binh just let me go early with pay. He told me to get some sleep before I broke anything,” Zack quickly explains, eager to interrogate his friend. Cloud did, after all, promise to explain what he was planning later, and, by all accounts, it is finally later. “So, what were you up to today?” he asks, only to bite back a groan of impatience as Cloud stops in place.

“Are you okay?” Cloud demands with a frown. “Did you get sick?”

“I’m _fine_. I think I just slept funny and it threw me off,” Zack half lies. His sleep was, in fact, interrupted, but it was not the reason for his fumbling fingers. Cloud does not need to know the rest. Zack revealed so much of his truest self in apologizing to Cloud for keeping him locked away—can he let that effort go to waste by letting his overbearing fears rise to the surface? 

“Sorry for keeping you up,” Cloud mutters after a drawn-out moment, his eyes tracking across Zack as though searching for signs of hurt. 

“Cloud, I can’t stress how much you don’t need to apologize for that,” Zack insists. When Cloud’s concern does not slip away, he warns, “If you keep looking at me like I’m gonna fall over, I swear I’ll start using you as an armrest.” 

“You already use me as an armrest,” comes the deadpan reply. 

Zack narrows his eyes, pointedly plops his arm across Cloud’s shoulders, and pushes them onward, ignoring his _shorter_ friend’s unimpressed sigh. 

“Okay, fine.” Cloud then slurs something together, speaking too quickly for Zack to parse the jumble of words. 

“Sorry, what? I can’t hear you from up here,” Zack teases, raising his food-laden arm to awkwardly cup a hand by his ear. 

“I said, I got a job.” 

Halting, Zack stares. The lights from the surrounding shops leave Cloud’s face aglow in a myriad of colors, cloaking whatever expression he wears underneath. He thinks of Cloud’s back, curled and closed off, of Cloud staring down at himself and the evidence of four lost years. Then, he thinks of Cloud’s eyes burning with conviction as he is beset by raised rifles. Of Cloud ripping a battlefield apart to find the last remaining potion. 

He thinks that Cloud must be a fool to not see the affection radiating from Zack’s face, from his lungs, his hands. How they must tremble in the space between distance and skin.

“Hey, you were the one who said I should do something,” Cloud snaps when Zack fails to respond.

Zack, soft, does not rush to placate him with a flow of babble as he usually would. Instead, he lifts his arm from Cloud’s shoulder and tangles his fingers into the blond hairs at the back of his head. With a gentle ruffle, he says, “Sunshine, I’m just proud.”

Cloud ducks his head, but, Zack notes with a smile, not far enough that the fingers slip out of his hair. “Right, um, okay,” he mutters, eyelids drooping. “I just― You shouldn’t have to make all the gil.”

“I don’t mind,” Zack answers automatically, too enamored to care that his offhand words might unravel his work from earlier. No one is perfect: Cloud can forgive a contradiction or two. 

Meeting his gaze, Cloud says, “I do,” before shutting his mouth with a click. 

Zack waits, expecting something to follow given the way Cloud’s eyes keep trailing away and returning to meet his, but Cloud does not continue. After a moment, his gaze finally settles on Zack’s forearm, the hand still buried in blond hair. Zack should let go―he _knows_ that he should―but to release him completely would be too telling. Thus, hardening his heart, Zack loosens his fingers, rests his arm along Cloud’s shoulders, and resumes walking. 

“So, where’d you find work?” Zack asks, slathering an extra layer of cheer between the syllables.

“The general store. The owner said she keeps losing employees to places above the Plate, where they can pay more. They just—” Cloud shrugs. “—make enough for a train pass and leave. Makes sense though.” He scrunches his nose, visibly miffed. “She can only pay thirty-five gil a day.” 

Zack winces in sympathy. He himself is not drawing in an impressive haul, but thirty-five might as well be a slap to the face. It is a far cry from the stipend Shinra allotted to infantrymen, let alone the one Zack received. Still, anything that gets Cloud out of the church and moving… 

“Is it the typical inventory and stocking type job, then?” Zack asks, smiling in an effort to keep Cloud’s mood from dipping. When his friend nods, he conspiringly whispers, “If you play your cards right, you won’t have to work the register at all.” 

“Way ahead of you,” Cloud replies, eyes narrowed, to which Zack laughs. He himself would not mind a Cloud-shaped cashier, but he can understand why others would be deterred by his brand of customer service. He imagines that it is for the best.

Zack grins when he suddenly catches sight of Aerith in the distance, the woman loitering by the pharmacy. As Cloud mutters, “Don’t want to deal with people,” Zack opens his mouth to call her over, only to close it when she shakes her head. Smiling, she places a finger to her lips and disappears behind a corner as though she were never there.

Assuming that she must have her reasons for avoiding them, Zack internally shrugs and refocuses on Cloud. “I’m impressed that you found something on your first day of looking,” Zack admits, letting the pride trickle back into his tone.

“I mean, it was the fifth place I asked.”

Gaping, Zack turns his head so quickly that he swears that something cracks in his neck. Only this morning, Cloud flayed himself open to reveal his inner turmoil, slicing at Zack’s defenses in turn. And yet, here he is, cracked all over, unapologetic, and unblinking. Zack approached a job opportunity once and nearly spiraled himself into a panic—Cloud approached several without any guarantees of success. The affection, the wonder, is back in full force.

“Stop making that face,” Cloud complains and points at the sunglasses on his head. “It’s hard enough taking you seriously with those.” 

Zack forces his mouth closed and slots the sunglasses back across his eyes. “No one’s taken me seriously before. Why start now?”

Pursing his lips, Cloud replies with an annoyed “fair.” When Zack grins cheekily, Cloud groans and proceeds to roughly shove him away. Even as he misses the warmth of Cloud’s shoulders, Zack does not regret the lame joke, for how could he regret his smile, exasperated or otherwise?

“Hey, hey, be careful with the goods!” Zack warns, laughing and lifting the paper bag at his side. 

Leaning forward as they stroll, Cloud peeks over. “That food?”

“Ye-ep,” Zack answers with a popping sound. “Soup—because Binh’s convinced I’m sick. I feel bad taking food and not working the full shift though.” _But not bad enough to refuse it._ “I dunno why he’s coddling me like this.” 

“I assume ‘cause he cares about you.”

Huffing out a breath, Zack goes to fiddle with his hair before remembering that doing so might ruin the tail. “Well, yeah, but he doesn’t _have_ to.” 

Zack walks ahead to let a rowdy group of revelers pass by alongside them, so he only notices when he steps back that Cloud has fallen somewhat behind. Glancing at his blank expression with concern, he asks, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Zack, you’re—” Cutting himself off, Cloud shakes his head. “Never mind.” With that, he marches off to Zack’s other side, deftly grabs the bag of soup, and strides onward, nearly jogging.

“Hey!” Zack shouts once he recovers from his surprise. Rushing to catch up, he calls, “Don’t _you_ start coddling me, too.”

Cloud, predictably, says nothing.

\---

In the middling darkness of the washroom, Zack’s outstretched arm hovers, frozen, above the handle of the Buster Sword. His eyes are fixed on the wilted flower, its tint a shadowed gray, which rests on the envelope of letters.

Zack startles at the clink of bowls knocking against each other in the nave. Shaking his head, he finishes sliding the sword out of its hiding place. Like placing a bookmark between a spread of pages, he leaves the floorboard where it lies before walking away. 

\--- 

Zack fiddles with his knife, opening and closing it repeatedly as he bites his lip. He should have given it to Cloud, he thinks. Cloud, who has already left this morning for his shift at the store, should have a backup form of protection. Even Aerith has her staff, so it should take little needling to convince his friend to accept the weapon. And if he complains that doing so would leave Zack unarmed? Well, their bundle of savings is growing—they can soon spring for another, even just for Cloud’s peace of mind.

Zack is stalling.

With a weary sigh, Zack closes the knife and finally pockets it. He stares down into the crawl space below the floorboard. Crouches.

 _Just like fixing a dislocated shoulder_ , says an encouraging voice.

Nodding in agreement, Zack reaches inside, grabs the envelope—leaving the flower behind—and heads into the nave. Deliberating, he finally settles on the steps to the altar and hunches over. The envelope, when he unclasps it, holds far too many letters to count at a glance. Only one is distinct: the letter that Zack received in the wilds. He winces to see the bloodstains marring the paper, the address barely visible. Worn from overreading, its contents echo in the chambers of Zack’s mind, so he sets it aside, untouched. 

He pours out the remaining letters with care and painstakingly orders them into piles. There must be at least fifty, but he suspects that it is a weak estimate. Each has a time stamp written neatly in pen on the bottom edge of the envelope—his money is on Tseng. Given that all the letters are politely sealed, it seems like a safe bet. With a bracing inhale, he ducks down and finds the earliest one. 

If Zack’s memory serves, it is dated only about a week after the…after that night in Nibelheim. He tears open the flap of the envelope, pulls out the single sheet of paper, and reads.

_Zack, I hope you’re doing well! You haven’t been answering your phone and—agh, I’m already annoyed at myself for writing this. I always promised myself I wouldn’t be that person. I know you must just be busy on your mission, but I can’t stop worrying. Not about us! About you. _

_Anyway, since you can’t use your phone (OH did you lose it?), I thought you might appreciate coming home to a letter or two, just so you’d know I’ve been thinking about you._

_I actually got Mom to come up with me to Midgar today! She doesn’t like it up there, but I think she felt better after seeing how nice everyone is. Of course, I only took her to the better parts of the city, but anything to keep her from worrying. (You know how she gets.) After all the time I spent up there, I don’t think I could go back to living underneath the Plate forever. I guess I have you to thank for that!_

_I’ll talk to you again soon. I promise I won’t blow up your phone with messages anymore! For now, I mean. No promises for when you come back._

_Love, Aerith_

Shuddering out a breath, Zack wipes at the corner of his eye with a palm and then folds the letter back into its envelope before reaching out for another. The next few, spaced apart in time, are largely the same. Aerith professes both her love and concern in equal amounts and then switches to sharing little tidbits of her day. Despite the grief pulling at his heart, Zack feels himself momentarily propelled into the past, appreciating the love letters for what they are. 

The following letter, however, takes on a different tone.

_Zack, I hope you’re okay. I haven’t heard from you in over a month. Mom says that you probably found another girl and don’t want to bother dealing with telling me. I told her, and I still feel terrible about this, but I told her to shut up. Even if you did, find another girl I mean, I think you’d tell me._

_I think something terrible has happened to you. Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this. I’m sending this directly to the SOLDIER headquarters after all, but I don’t know where else to send it (I don’t think you’re in Nibelheim anymore). Maybe Tseng is reading this. Hello, Tseng! Please stop lurking in the shadows like a creep._

Choked up, Zack lets out a watery laugh.

_Zack, I wish I could help you, but I don’t know where you are. And I don’t think Tseng would let me leave the city. He’s been avoiding me, so I can’t ask him about you. Anyway, he wouldn’t tell me anything._

_I miss you. I hope you’re safe._

_With all my love, Aerith_

“Wow, seeing them all like this—” Zack startles, jerking his head up. “—is embarrassing,” Aerith comments meekly, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t think there were so many.” 

Terrified, Zack watches as Aerith fiddles with a fold in her dress before she steps over to circle the flower patch, heading to where he sits by the altar. He cannot fathom how he managed to miss her not only knocking, but also walking up the aisle. As she settles gingerly beside him on the steps, Zack turns his head to clear away any escaped tears, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder.

“Where’s Cloud?” Aerith asks tentatively, tilting her head at the piles of envelopes.

“He’s out,” Zack answers, voice hoarse. “He got a job at the general store.” He is not prepared for this conversation. Soldiers are taught to expect an ambush at nearly every corner, but he might as well be caught in the crossfire with his pants down. He knew he would hurt Aerith with the truth, and her messages have confirmed this twofold. 

Aerith smiles, her eyes creasing. “That’s wonderful.” Shifting, she glances back at the letters and laughs awkwardly. “And good. I wouldn’t have wanted Cloud to see this. Did Tseng give you these?”

Zack stills and mentally repeats the words. Lowering his head ever so slightly, he asks, “Why wouldn’t you want him to see the letters?” 

He knows why. 

Aerith’s frown, Zack tells himself, is not one of anger, but one of confusion. Even so, it does nothing to quell the panicked beat of his heart. 

“Well, I don’t want Cloud to get the wrong idea about us. Or for me to get in your way,” she explains, smiling gently as though Zack’s insides are not threatening to tear him apart with how tightly they are wound. “I know about you two, Zack. You can stop tiptoeing around me. It’s okay.” 

“ _Aerith_ ,” Zack chokes out, letter crumpling in his hands. He cannot even be offended at the fact that she believes that he cheated on her. He might as well have. Emotionally, Zack imagines himself on a plane far above something as basal as “boyfriend.” Regardless of what Cloud does not feel, Zack is certainly culpable.

“Cloud and I aren’t together,” he rushes to explain, his voice cracking as his pooling tears begin to slip down his cheeks. “We’ve never even kissed or _anything_. Aerith, I would _never do that to you._ ” 

Breaking, Zack drops the letter and hides his face behind his shaking hands in an attempt to collect himself, hoping to stem the insidious guilt that has been bearing down on him these past weeks. But, before he can so much as bite back a sob, Aerith wraps her hands around his wrists and pulls them down, interweaving her fingers with his. Frowning, she simply…stares. Her silence causes Zack’s restlessness to spike in panic, urging him to run. If not for Aerith tightening her hold, he would rip himself away. 

“You two aren’t… Okay, that’s—” Aerith glances at her flowers, brows scrunching, and then leans forward to meet his gaze, expression earnest. “Zack, you know that it’s okay to move on, right? It’s not always mutual, but it happens. We can’t really control it.” Releasing one of his hands, Aerith raises her own to his cheek and swipes a tear away.

“But I _abandoned_ you. I’m so sorry, Aerith.” He is—even if he cannot regret the affection curling through his veins, puppeteering him toward Cloud, he regrets that she must be caught in the middle of this. 

“Zack, that wasn’t your fault,” Aerith argues, eyes blazing. “And the moment you realized what happened, you came to Midgar, _the most dangerous place you can be_.”

Zack has nothing to say to that, but he cannot help but flinch and look away when Aerith huffs out a long breath. He knows her to be sweet and good, but what kindness could he be afforded for betraying her trust? Her faith in him? What must she be feeling beneath the righteousness? Does she even realize that she was half correct in her initial assumption? 

“Zack, listen.” Aerith squeezes his trapped hand, prompting him to warily meet her gaze. “It’s been over four years. Nearly _five_. We’re different people.” Zack stills, hearkening to her words. They knock against his skull, cracking into the bone and edging toward his brain. “We _both_ are,” she finishes with a sharp nod. 

“You…don’t—?” he manages, loosening his grip on her hand. 

Aerith shakes her head, expression tinged with bittersweetness. 

Zack’s shoulders slump, mouth slackening. It is not shock that has struck him so—he is not nearly so conceited—but an overwhelming, tender relief. The tension coiled in his back begins to ease, but he has not even remotely finished groveling. Even if Aerith’s feelings toward him have changed, it does not guarantee that she has completely rinsed out the dregs of hurt.

“Are you…angry?”

Aerith settles back and hums, staring off into the distance. Anxiously awaiting her response, Zack stares down at her hand in his, marveling at the difference in sizes. It has not changed in all the years they have been parted. And, he realizes with no lack of awe, neither will their friendship. 

“Maybe I was a little at first when you didn’t show up alone—” Aerith shrugs, unabashed. “—but that was before I saw you two interact. After that, I was just a little jealous,” she admits with a devious smile. “Zack, I’ve never seen you look at me like that! And don’t even get me started on _‘sunshine_.’” She laughs, lightly punching Zack’s thigh with their joined hands.

 _Well, that answers that_ , Zack thinks tiredly. “I’m sorry,” he says out loud, rubbing at his temple.

Releasing his hand, Aerith straightens and places her fists on her hips. Zack suspects that her expression could command armies. “Yes, how dare you make eyes at someone else _four years_ after we dated?” 

Shrugging, Zack looks down at his feet, inspecting his worn boots to avoid her gaze even though he is almost certain that she is teasing. “Didn’t feel like four years to me.” 

For a moment, Aerith does not respond, the air heavy with deliberation, until she leans over, snags a letter, and says, “You know, the tone of these changed pretty quickly.” Carelessly, she flings it away and kicks, knocking over the nearest stack. “Most of these read like journal entries. I wasn’t trying to, to win you back or anything. Even if you had gone off with someone—” Aerith shoots out a hand to cover Zack’s mouth before he can object. “—I just wanted you to reply. I wanted to make sure you were okay. And you…weren’t. You really weren’t.”

Finally showing a break in her composure, Aerith clears her throat and returns her hands to her lap. Zack wants nothing more than to comfort her, so he cautiously edges toward her. When she does not protest his warmth along her side, he leans against her, Aerith falling against him in turn. 

“Zack, I’d much rather have a friend who’s alive than a boyfriend who’s dead. Anyway—” Chuckling, Aerith knocks her elbow against his. “I think I like you much better as a friend. You’re not constantly trying to impress me, for one.” 

Exhausted, Zack barks out a weak laugh, conceding the point. “Yeah, I was kind of a shit back then.”

“You still are,” Aerith quips happily.

Scoffing, Zack stares out into the sunlit nave, remembering how little effort it took to ask Aerith out on a date, as though the outcome mattered much less than the act itself. Had it been because he was confident that she would respond affably, or was it because he would not have left brokenhearted if rejected? Perhaps both.

Tentatively, he tries on a thought for size: _Aerith doesn’t have feelings for me anymore._

Tipping his head against Aerith’s, Zack closes his eyes and lets himself inhale for the first time in what feels like an age. The weight of the guilt lifts and resettles on his shoulders in specks of dust. He can do nothing about the burden of withheld requital, but it sits much more bearably without the added remorse.

“So, do you love him?” 

When Zack opens his mouth, the _something_ —the _something_ that has finally won the fight to be named—takes charge, disallowing him to utter anything but the truth. “I was ready to die for him. If not for his help, I would have.” 

If not a direct reply, it answers Aerith’s question more aptly than anything Zack could blunder through. Blinking slowly, he glances up, only to find Aerith pressing a hand to her chest, seemingly stunned. When he laughs awkwardly, she startles, clutches at him, and starts shaking his shoulder with surprising strength.

“Then, what are you _waiting_ for?” she exclaims. Zack fixes her with an incredulous look. “Oh, right. Well, now that you know I’m not _pining_ away for you—” She grins, eyes glinting. “—are you going to ask him out?”

For a moment, Zack lets himself picture it. There are so many trite routes of courting he could follow—flowers, letters, candy—but, underneath the layer of cheer, Zack is a frightfully direct person. He imagines standing before Cloud and simply asking. Imagines, just for an instant, Cloud’s eyes lighting up with more than just Mako, reminding Zack just why he cannot stop calling him “sunshine.” 

_Huh._ No wonder Aerith thought they were a couple. She watched Zack and jumped to a conclusion without gauging the one on the end of his gaze.

“No. Cloud doesn’t like me like that.” Hunching over, Zack clasps his hands together and dives into the recesses of his mind. 

_A blond boy leaning over a dark-haired girl, longing in the arch of his back._

When he opens his eyes, the light within the church is too bright against the darkness of the memory. Aerith scoots forward to catch his eyes, but Zack avoids looking in her direction even though she is the one person he knows who will understand this particular ache. He remembers a melancholy night wherein he and Aerith sat on this very floor, side by side, and realized wherein their similarities lay.

Reluctantly side-eyeing his friend, Zack confesses, “I don’t think he’s like us. I’ve only heard him talk about a girl. Or, well—” He pauses, smiling sadly at the age-old memory of Cloud shyly ducking his head at the mere mention of his crush. “ _Not-talk_ about her. It was obvious he liked her though.”

“Well, _that_ doesn’t rule it out.”

“I’m pretty sure,” Zack mutters, staring down at his fingers as they interlace. Even if Cloud is _not_ straight, this fact remains: when push came to shove, Cloud ran past his battered body toward another, not even sparing him a glance. Zack knows where Cloud’s heart lies, and it is not within Zack’s chest. 

Whether Cloud’s love is still alive is another question entirely, but the heart does not often take such trivial details into account. Zack cannot imagine that it would.

“But—” Aerith sighs. “Okay, I’m sorry I assumed. It’s just that you two seem so close,” she explains, placing a steadying hand on Zack’s knee. 

And she is right, is the thing—they _are_ close. It is the tightrope Zack walks between elation and despair. Zack has meted out a portion of secret happiness to himself from their interactions, but there is always the risk of siphoning too much and hurting them both. A smarter man would distance himself from this, but Zack has never thought himself especially clever. However, he is, as he has come to find, utterly selfish.

“We are close,” Zack admits. “We’re as close as you’d expect two people who survived something shitty to be. I can’t stand the thought of Shinra even _touching_ him, and he… He dreamed I’d died and didn’t handle it well. I think, I _know_ , that we rely on each other. Y’know, for comfort.”

There are things that Zack thinks, things that Zack feels, that he pushes down and away whenever they resurface from his subconscious. Things that he cannot always fully process. Things that leave him shaking when he encounters them in his nightmares. His explanation acknowledges too many of these truths, but he can think of no other way to convince Aerith to leave well enough alone.

“When I…” Aerith hesitates, tapping a finger against Zack’s knee. “Remember when you were injured? When I came back with the Cure materia, Cloud had your head in his lap. And he was just…looking at you. That’s when I knew—or thought I did—that you were a couple.”

“Like I said,” Zack insists, words like glass shards in his mouth, “we rely on each other.” He does not remember that at all; if he was ever cognizant, then the memory has been lost to fever. The thought of yet another moment lost threatens to send him spiraling. 

“Okay,” Aerith says and then repeats it as she scoots in and wraps her arms around his torso. Gripping the back of her shoulders, Zack surrenders to the hug and shudders out a sigh. He finds himself sapped of all energy, nigh on floating with the easing of tension. Then, to his dismay, he realizes that there is yet an entire day of work to whittle away at, not to mention a scheduled train departure that he cannot exactly put off. 

Groaning lightly, Zack mutters, “Crap, I should head out to the station soon.”

With an agreeing hum, Aerith pulls back and slowly releases him, trailing her arms against his sides. Glancing away, she purses her lips at the array of letters spread out before them. “I’m going to take these,” she declares and then shuffles down the steps to begin collecting her handiwork into the discarded envelope.

“I…still kind of want to read them all,” Zack admits, winding a hand into his hair.

Aerith cranes her head back at him and scrunches her nose. “I don’t want you to. Some of the early ones _did_ get a little nasty. I told you: I’m a different person now, and I don’t want past me to change your opinion of present me.” 

As Aerith returns to her sorting, Zack nods in tacit agreement. He, too, would not necessarily want his past self to fall through the roof right now, let alone charmingly fumble his way through an introduction while he watched on in horror. Living through it once was enough. 

“Oh!” Aerith exclaims, drawing Zack’s attention. With a smile, she raises a visibly mangled letter, neither holding it out to him nor keeping it away. She is, Zack realizes, giving him a choice. 

He frowns, considering. While it was a source of motivation, Aerith’s final letter never did comfort, not even during the loneliness of a nighttime vigil. Even now, the resigned accusation of the words presses against his heart. Perhaps it is the coward’s way out, but Zack shakes his head.

“I have that letter memorized.”

With that, Aerith drops the bloody letter into the envelope, gathers in the rest, and closes the flap decisively. “I think I might burn this,” she muses.

Zack laughs, once again asking himself what he has done to deserve her.

\--- 

“I forgot how draining it is,” Cloud remarks, clinking a spoon against his empty bowl. Awash in both light and shadow, he sits by the wall beside the altar, his silhouette bringing to mind an oil painting from centuries past. 

Blinking slowly, Zack murmurs, “What? Physical labor?” and attempts to stifle a yawn. He is stretched out by the patch of lilies, working to digest a particularly sating meal. For the first time in a long while, his insides are not cramping at the sheer volume of food, allowing him to enjoy the feeling of fullness in peace. Objectively, he should perhaps find this upsetting, but it is much easier to skip over that aspect and simply revel in the confirmation that his body is healing. _Strengthening_. 

“No,” Cloud replies, “dealing with people. I don’t remember it being that bad.”

Zack, glancing up at the lantern-lit ceiling, tucks his hands beneath his head and hums. “Did you have to work the register after all?”

“No, Hanako doesn’t trust me with gil yet.” Cloud’s voice drifts in from the distance, sloshing against Zack’s ear in a gentle tide. He could fall asleep right here, but, eager to hear about Cloud’s day, he breathes in deeply and turns to look back at him, smiling when he is met with grumpiness. 

“They all kept trying to talk to me,” Cloud continues, raising a palm in apparent confusion, “and asking if we had something. And then getting mad when I didn’t know.” He massages his temples, grunting. “And then getting mad when _I_ got mad.”

“Cloud!” Zack exclaims. “Did you yell at your customers?” The mental image, admittedly, should not delight him quite so much.

“Not _yet_ ,” Cloud grumbles menacingly.

Zack chuckles, shaking his head with fondness. “Give yourself time to get used to it, yeah? Maybe only yell at them inside your head.” He almost jokingly offers to switch jobs with him, but bites his tongue at the thought of Cloud, alone, so close to Shinra’s headquarters. “Hide in the stockroom as much as you can, that sort of thing. And if anyone asks about the eyes, just tell them you were near the Gongaga reactor when it exploded. That’s worked for me so far.”

Cloud nods, visibly troubled, to which Zack repeats, “Just give it time.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he agrees grudgingly, only to raise his voice and groan, “It’s gonna take _forever_ to get used to people again.” 

The griping remark throws Zack off, and it takes him a moment to realize why: Cloud is imitating _him_. Rather, he is mirroring Zack’s speech patterns. Naturally, friends mirror each other’s idiosyncrasies all the time, but there is something especially wondrous about Cloud doing the same, as he is not tonally emotive on any given day. 

“Living with me must be a nightmare, then,” Zack replies, tone too sweet for his teasing words. 

“In more ways than one.”

Zack is perfectly comfortable mirroring Cloud in return, so without even looking, he lazily unearths a hand and makes a rude gesture in the blond’s direction. When it has the desired effect of shocking a laugh out of Cloud, Zack tucks his hand back under his head and closes his eyes, smiling as satisfaction pools into his heart. 

Then, scarcely a moment later, Cloud murmurs, “You don’t count as ‘people,’” and Zack promptly opens his eyes and turns his head. Cloud, who sounded like himself again, wears a blank but not unfriendly expression. 

“ _Thanks?_ ” Zack replies, wondering whether he should feel offended.

“It’s a good thing,” Cloud confirms before casting his gaze away and poking at the pocketknife lying by his thigh. “Hey, you sure you want me to have this?” he asks hurriedly, seemingly desperate to change the subject―not that Zack will listen to any more protests regarding the knife. He had practically pressed it upon Cloud as soon as he returned home, leaving him little room to argue. 

“Yeah, given the monsters around here, it would make me feel better if you had it with you,” Zack explains, not bothering to hide his concern. There is so little to be gained by doing so, after all. Zack’s affection, if not the flavor of it, is already visible in every one of his actions. “I haven’t seen that many after that first night—I guess the blood drew them—but, just in case…” He shrugs, letting the silence speak for itself. 

“What about you?”

Craning his head, Zack frowns and reluctantly says, “No offense, sunshine, but I’m a lot more trained in unarmed combat.” It is indeed true: Zack may prefer fighting with a sword, but Angeal wholly prepared him for such a scenario. In between the moments Zack failed to dodge his attacks and was slammed onto the practice mats, that is.

Cloud huffs, clearly unimpressed, and raises his brow in challenge. “They didn’t just teach us to wave guns around, you know. But I take your point,” he adds when Zack grimaces. “I’ll keep it.”

Relieved that they will not be hashing out this argument, Zack plops his head back into the cradle of his arms and exhales. Still, knowing Cloud, he will find some way to get back at him; Zack suspects that he has already been exchanging pointers with Aerith in that respect. Bringing those two together might have been the most unwise thing Zack has done in recent memory. 

“Are you okay?” Cloud asks suddenly, his words punctuated by a soft thud from the knife dropping to the floor. When Zack stares back at him, bewildered, Cloud frowns, refusing to make eye contact. “I mean, after yesterday. When Binh thought you were sick.”

“Oh, right.” Zack squints, considering. “Yeah. Sleepy from food, but I feel…great, actually.” And he does. There is something to be said for the absolution of confession. Zack cannot recall ever feeling lighter. If Cloud were to drag his hand against him, he would push through as though Zack were composed of mist.

“Okay. Good. I’m, I’m tired, too.” Cloud hesitates, rubbing at his cheek in apparent thought. “Maybe I’ll wash up now to save time. You always take forever.”

“Hey!” Zack protests, bending his leg and stomping indignantly. “You’d take forever, too, if you went months without toothpaste! Knowingly, that is.” He sniffs, playing up the melodramatic act. “Have some sympathy.” 

Cloud rises to his feet with a soft scuffle, dinnerware clinking in his hands. Curious, Zack watches as he walks over and crouches beside him, stacking his empty bowl into Zack’s. As though in afterthought, he tugs out Zack’s spoon from underneath the top bowl and nestles it into the second spoon. 

Gaze lowered, Cloud continues to fiddle with the spoons, seemingly intent on aligning them. “You know,” he says once he is satisfied with the utensils’ placement, “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. For taking care of me while we were on the run, I mean.”

Had he not? Even if Cloud _had_ never verbalized it, Zack understands his gratitude implicitly. He feels it whenever Cloud refills his water bottle without asking; whenever he does the laundry when it is definitely Zack’s turn; whenever he does not protest Zack plastering himself against him, in sleep or otherwise. The gratitude thrives within these moments. While Zack does not require it, he cherishes it all the same. 

“Pretty sure you did,” Zack replies. 

Cloud shakes his head and finally locks eyes with his. “Not for that. So, thank you.” 

Zack—because he is an utter disaster—smiles and gives Cloud a thumbs-up. He immediately regrets it, cringing internally. Cloud, however, does not twitch so much as a judgmental brow; he merely props up an arm behind him and leans back, lowering his chin. 

“It must’ve been shitty going through all that on your own. Especially without toothpaste,” Cloud comments with a quirk of a smile. His eyes, however, remain turbulent as ever, shrewd and observing. Zack feels flayed to the bone. 

“I wasn’t on my own.” Sweeping off his embarrassment, Zack reaches out and pokes Cloud’s knee demonstratively. 

Cloud scoffs, shaking his head. “You might as well have been. I wish I’d been awake. I could’ve helped you.” 

_You did. You can’t imagine how much._

Unwilling to disclose his innermost thoughts, Zack shrugs and simply says, “You’re awake now. We got through it, so don’t even think about it. It’s all in the past.”

“That’s the thing though.” Mako eyes aflame, Cloud leans forward, crowding him, face hovering above Zack’s. “You helped me that whole time. You’re still helping me. So, if you—” Cloud falters and abruptly settles back, staring down at the hand curled against his thigh. “If you need help or want to talk about it or anything,” he continues, voice soft, “then I’m here for you.” 

“Okay,” Zack says automatically, fighting to keep the frown from his face, lest Cloud think his offer is unwelcome. However, the last thing he wants is to dredge up the horrors of the previous year. Zack has kept only one souvenir from the trip: their closeness. Everything else can be left behind, forgotten and damned. 

“I appreciate it, but I’m fine,” Zack murmurs with a small smile. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that talk one day though,” he amends. Cloud so rarely reaches out. It would be cruel to dissuade him from doing so again. 

In lieu of a reply, Cloud clenches his jaw and nods, the motion jerky. Zack wonders whether the refusal hurt his feelings, but the blond is quick to roll his eyes, further cementing Zack’s suspicion that he and Aerith are in cahoots. 

Rocking forward, Cloud grabs the bowls and then rises to his feet. “It’s your turn to do the dishes.”

“But that would require getting up!” Zack whines, throwing out his arms plaintively. He is no longer quite so sleepy as a result of Cloud’s close proximity, but he is loath to leave the groove he has worn into the floor. 

Thus, when Cloud’s foot nudges him in the side, Zack grabs it, wrapping his fingers around the ankle. Caught off guard, Cloud starts teetering over and has to hop to regain his balance. Biting back a chuckle, Zack loosens his grip, only to burst into laughter when Cloud growls in annoyance. He must not be too embarrassed, however, for he extends an arm toward Zack not a moment later, wiggling his fingers.

“Next time, I’m just gonna fall on you. Elbows first,” Cloud vows as he pulls Zack up to his feet.

Forcing himself to release Cloud’s warm hand, Zack smiles and grabs the proffered bowls. “I’m sure I’ll deserve it.”

\---

Panting lightly, Zack lifts his arm, rubs the back of his hand against his forehead, and grins when it comes away dry. Even two weeks ago, a few laps around the slums would have had him breathing heavily and covered in sweat; now, he barely feels the strain. Zack suspects that the Mako has something to do with his body’s quick comeback, but he can hardly complain—not when it ensures that he will be prepared for anything, should it come to pass.

It helps, too, that his energy has been increasing as of late. He woke this morning bursting with it, much to the annoyance of Cloud, who stared groggily back at him when Zack suggested a lengthy run. Unsurprisingly, Cloud kicked him out of bed, and Zack, knowing that it was a losing battle, retreated at a swift pace.

Back from his run, Zack hops up the stairs to the church and slips inside without bothering to knock, expecting Cloud to be either still asleep or already awaiting him. He is surprised, then, to find both Cloud and Aerith present. The two are crouched by the flowers, heads tilted together in quiet conference. Aerith nods, seemingly acknowledging Zack, but does not otherwise bring attention to him. 

Uninterested in shattering the morning’s peace, Zack quietly ambles up the aisle, pocketing his hands. The sun—that is, what little of it can reach their makeshift home—shines through one of the stained glass windows, casting rainbows on his friends’ backs. Their hands are lost beneath the cover of leaves that sway as they work the soil. 

“Hey, you two. Plotting behind my back?” Zack drawls as he closes in on them. 

Immediately, he is met with two faces, one panicked and the other delighted. 

“Morning, Zack!” Aerith chirps, a complete contrast to Cloud, who scrambles up from the floor and shakes the dirt from his hands with a fervor. Zack hears Aerith chuckle, too baffled by Cloud’s reaction to spare her a glance. 

“Cloud?” Zack frowns at his friend’s jerky movements, Cloud’s head swiveling back and forth as his gaze catches on Aerith and Zack in turn. Zack only has a moment to wonder whether Cloud is yet again under the impression that he is a third wheel before the blond finally stills, eyes having landed on the front doors.

“I have to get to work,” Cloud announces, voice uncharacteristically loud, and charges past Zack. 

“But you still have an hour till then!” Zack protests and then rubs at his neck when Cloud completely ignores him, escaping the church in record time. 

Behind him, Aerith begins to hum a merry tune to herself. Narrowing his eyes, Zack slowly pivots and fixes her with the most suspicious glare he can muster. Considering that it is Aerith at the end of it, it must look rather pathetic.

“What were you just talking about?” Zack means to sound stern, but his words come out coated in apprehension. 

He inherently knows that Aerith would never out him to Cloud, but…he cannot disregard the possibility. After going for months relying only on himself, the instinct toward distrust is knee-jerk. Beyond that, he cannot imagine what else could have elicited that veiled expression on Cloud’s face. What had it meant? Neither fear nor disgust nor concern, but something that could potentially be slotted in between the three.

“Oh, nothing much,” Aerith lilts airily, picking away at a drying leaf. “I was just gushing about a woman I saw in Sector 7 the other day.”

Zack shifts on his feet, staring. Of course she would not out Zack, not when she could just as easily out herself. “Aerith,” he says, only continuing when she looks back at him with raised brows, “did you also tell him that we’re not together?” 

Smiling, Aerith tilts her head, a decidedly devious glint in her eye. “I may have indeed strongly implied it, yes.” 

With a deep groan, Zack hides his face within the darkness of his palms. “Okay, this definitely counts as meddling.” 

“Hey, it’s not like you were going to tell him! Don’t pretend like you were!” Aerith scolds. “It’s cruel to keep letting him believe something that isn’t true.”

Zack exhales into his palms, staving off his nerves. Aerith is…absolutely right—on both counts. He had already concluded that there was no direct way to clarify his and Aerith’s relationship without raising questions, but her second point blindsides him. He imagines—can glean it from her sly expressions—that Aerith would try to set him up with Cloud if given the chance, so her intentions are suspect, but he had not considered it from that angle. It _is_ cruel to lie, even by omission.

Zack spent all of his hope on keeping Cloud alive throughout their journey, so he does not believe that this will add kindling to any of his romantic daydreams, but it _will_ help Cloud, who will no longer be plagued by insecure notions prompted by an imagined relationship. 

“Okay,” Zack says quietly, dropping his hands and blinking into the sudden brightness. “Thank you.” With a sigh, he drifts downward and settles atop his folded legs. Aerith, sobering, pulls away from the flowers and grants him her full attention. “What, um— How did he react? To everything?” 

“Honestly? He was mostly just confused,” Aerith replies, tapping a finger against her chin. At Zack’s scrunched expression, she rolls her eyes and adds, “Not about _that_. About us two. He _really_ thought we were a couple, Zack.” Her accusation is paired with narrowed eyes, a nebulous thought that he cannot begin to parse hiding beneath the words.

Biting his lip, Zack glances back at the front doors, remembering the fading line of Cloud’s back. His hand twitches in afterthought, longing to catch him. “Is that why he ran…?”

“I mean, _I’d_ be embarrassed,” Aerith reasons, tone thoughtful. “He probably needs some space to process it.”

“Yeah,” Zack breathes out, “I guess.” With a weak groan, he plops sideways and rolls over to stretch out, the floor at his back. “What’s there to process though?”

At that, Aerith lets out a little hum and pats the side of his head. Even kindly meant, the gesture feels condescending, but Zack allows her the slight. Considering how many faux pas he makes on a daily basis, he has no doubt earned it. 

After a moment, Aerith removes her hand and returns to tending to the flowers, so Zack takes a second to catch up to his own emotions. He is… To say that he is relieved is perhaps inaccurate, but he cannot extrapolate any negative consequences that could arise thanks to Aerith’s clever actions. At best, he is cautiously optimistic. Cloud can stop worrying about getting in between them, and Zack can continue as he has without the dread of Cloud shying away from him. 

It is the last that Zack cannot stomach. He has been in enough locker rooms to understand the fear that some men hold in their hearts, this panic that materializes when male comradery is threatened by an imagined desiring gaze. Zack has, out of necessity, memorized the safest route through that minefield. Within a group, he is neither too friendly nor too soft, making him impervious to scrutiny. No, the issue lies in one-on-one interactions, wherein the facade cracks and his besotted smiles do nothing to hide his longing. 

Zack can only thank the universe that Cloud has never seen him interact with a crush. If he were to compare notes, it would take him sheer minutes to decipher the subtext. Instead, as far as Cloud’s aware, Zack is simply secure in his masculinity and unafraid of insinuations. For now, it will have to do.

And yet, ruled by his paranoia, Zack cannot help but take extra precautions. “Hey, um―” He clears his throat, hating himself for his incoming request. “―please don’t, don’t out me, okay?”

Aerith stills, staring at her hands in a stupor. When she finally looks over, melancholy knits her brows. “I wouldn’t have. I won’t.”

“Yeah. I know,” Zack replies, voice rough. “Sorry.” He regrets opening his mouth. Slowly, he sits up and curls toward his knees, too ashamed to face her. “Thank you,” he adds belatedly and then lets the ensuing silence echo, its tone brittle.

“She was,” Aerith says suddenly, startling Zack with the frailty of her voice, “really something else though.”

After a moment’s deliberation, Zack glances back and raises his brows, a surprised smile sneaking into his mouth. He had assumed that she had created this mystery woman for Zack’s sake, but her being real adds a layer of ingenuousness to Aerith’s ruse. Zack could never stay even remotely upset at Aerith, but especially not when she is in need of a good ribbing from her oldest friend. 

“Oh, _was_ she now?” he drawls, scooting closer.

Aerith, gaze lowered, nods and begins to play with a lock of hair hanging by her cheek. “Yes, she was…quite something,” she finishes weakly and pinkens when she notices Zack’s undisguised glee. “Oh, _hush_.” 

Zack leans forward and knocks their shoulders together, grinning. “Maybe you should introduce yourself next time you see her,” he sing-songs, his tease softening with encouragement. 

“I, mm…maybe.” 

Aerith glances up at him, and they immediately find themselves wearing the same expression of exasperation, sharing a moment of solidarity that soon breaks off into boisterous laughter. At least, Zack thinks with a slow shake of his head, they can be disasters together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- When Aerith says that Zack is “really bad at this,” she is referring to being a considerate boyfriend.  
> \- Zack is thinking of Reno when he comes up with his “disguise.”  
> \- I won’t pretend like depression can be “fixed” with a few simple changes, but healthy distractions, a change of scenery, and a renewal of purpose can sometimes help. Zack, unfortunately, only has his own personal experience to fall back on when trying to help Cloud. He does okay though, in the end. And yeah, Cloud’s depression is NOT Zack’s fault. While keeping someone “locked away safe” wouldn’t help the situation, this concept doesn’t apply here because Cloud is perfectly autonomous. It's not that Cloud doesn’t go above the Plate because Zack told him not to―he doesn’t go because he understands that it’s a bad idea. (Does he like that Zack goes instead? Nope!)  
> \- I totally made up the general store in the Wall Market; I figure that they didn’t bother making one in the actual game since players wouldn’t have had need to buy anything there.  
> \- There’s no way that Aerith wrote all those letters without considering that MAYBE something bad had happened to Zack.  
> \- If I’m honest, I really dislike when the trope of “knowing [female] friend” is handled badly. You know, where Character A denies that he’s in love with Character B (or else says that B could never return his feelings), but Character C, the knowing friend, INSISTS that A and B are in love? I know it’s just played for laughs, but it sometimes comes across as…well, disrespectful and invasive. Of course, that’s not to say that I’m not using this trope―Aerith definitely suspects that they are pining for each other―but I’ve done my best to write it in a way that isn’t grating. If I failed, then I am a giant hypocrite, whoops.  
> \- Cloud mirroring Zack is absolutely a nod to the S-cells.  
> \- Did Zack just realize that Cloud’s love language is acts of service? Yes. Yes, he did.  
> \- Zack and Aerith’s friendship dynamic is honestly one of my favorite things in this fic. Not all exes can have affable relationships, but you just know that these two are the kind of people that would make it work―and make it work well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings  
> \- Potentially disturbing imagery in the very first scene  
> \- Brief hypothetical allusions to sexual assault (not related to any named character)  
> \- An explicit description of a panic attack (if you want to avoid it, it begins when Zack is alone at the train station)

Zack is running.

The walls of the corridor, molded out of solid concrete, bracket a gravelly path. It dips with every step he takes, slowing him down before propelling him forward, nearly tripping him. He is following the lines of light gleaming along the walls, each a sickly green, but none have borne fruit. The rest of the corridor is engulfed in darkness, blacker against the stark light. 

He is searching. He has been searching for what must be hours now. 

Nothing yet has crossed his path, for which Zack suffers, unable to vent his pervasive panic on a suitable target. As he gains ground, the lines of light, one by one, dwindle to nothing until he is forced to stop. Breathing heavily, he stretches out both arms, only to find emptiness, the walls spirited away.

Zack pivots and runs into the emptiness. There is no time for hesitation: if _he_ is not here, then they must have him. Zack has to find him. 

The shapeless ground gives way to linoleum, but Zack’s footfalls make no sound as he barrels across the tiles. The world is both black and green again—streams of swirling Mako leading him onward—so he knows that he must be getting closer. They bring him to an intersection, and Zack slows down just in time for the Mako to coalesce into a familiar figure of pink, red, and brown, one which raises a pointed finger rightward.

_Hurry, Zack, they have him! They have him!_

Zack turns right, and he is flying, no longer hampered by the sucking ground or the obscurity of darkness. A blaze filters in from below, shooting upward in beams and disorienting him as light and shadow rave against his sight. He presses on. Leagues pass in seconds. Then, his path is lined with cylindrical tanks brimming with Mako, all growing skyward. They stand empty—until they do not.

As he walks, pieces begin to appear within the tubes. A finger here, a rib there. A calf. A hipbone. An ear pierced with a stud. A heart, still beating. 

Zack does not have eyelids, so he cannot stop seeing it, cannot look away. He is standing before a face, the skin scraped from a skull, its underside red.

 _Zack_ , it says.

He cannot look away. 

_Zack, listen._

He does, tilting his head even as the gruesome sight begins to slant sideways, is cast on a background of quilted cloth. 

“Zack, wake up.” 

Zack closes his eyes. His world becomes comprised of touch, of pressure and familiarity. He breathes in deeply, lungs constricted by a pressure in his chest. There is a warm hand on his nape, stroking as his heart pounds a staccato through his veins. Zack shakes his head and lets loose a sob, and the hand gentles further. 

“You’re Zack Fair,” says a voice by his ear, kind and utterly beloved. Zack’s cheek is tucked against its neck, so the words reverberate, playing a melody against his skin. He buries closer, mouth a breath away from touching. “You’re safe in Midgar with me. With Cloud. I’ve got you. We’re both safe. _I’ve got you._ ” 

Swallowing down another sob, Zack shifts from where he lies halfway on top of Cloud, lifts his limp arms, and wraps them around the blond’s back. Cloud’s hand continues to soothe the skin of his nape, but his other hand drifts from its place on Zack’s shoulder down to the center of his spine. The tips of his fingers land beyond the hem of his rucked-up shirt, and Zack focuses on those points of heat, banishing the disturbing visions from his memory.

 _Cloud is safe, Cloud is whole_ , he tells himself, words looping obsessively. “You’re safe,” he repeats, tone heavy with the need for confirmation, unembarrassed and unrestrained even as he shakes. 

“Y-yeah,” Cloud whispers. “I’m safe.”

“ _Good_ ,” Zack says before lowering his head and placing his unmoving mouth against the slope of Cloud’s shoulder, skin to skin. 

Zack, out of necessity, neither acknowledges nor allows his trauma to slip past his inner defenses. And yet, for all that effort, he is falling apart. His trembles would belie any excuse he could offer, but Zack can no longer think of a reason to hide. Cloud was with him at Nibelheim, throughout the wastelands, was present in the moments that mattered. If anyone can understand Zack’s fears without judgment, is permitted to see them, it is him. 

After all, Cloud―being Cloud―bears the power to put him back together. Zack will take whatever comfort he is willing to part with, just as Cloud accepted Zack’s on a night not unlike this one.

Cloud’s fingers tap against his spine, beating out a simple tattoo. His head moves ever so slightly, failing to dislodge Zack’s mouth from where he has so stubbornly set it. Later, Zack will regret surrendering to his baser instincts, but the darkness of night hides many sins, some of which can be mistaken for accidents. 

“Are you okay?” Cloud whispers. “Do you want to take a walk?”

Zack briefly slits his eyes open and considers the suggestion. Imagines rolling out of bed and slotting on a mask of unconcern. Imagines the energy it would take. Imagines releasing Cloud. No, he would much rather remain in bed, hidden away and free to touch.

“Let’s just stay here,” Zack rasps out against his skin. When Cloud hums a little sound of acknowledgement, he relaxes, removing his mouth. 

Wary of crushing him with his weight, Zack rolls Cloud toward him and settles them both on their sides. Miraculously, Cloud does not protest the manhandling, but he does retract his hand from Zack’s neck to adjust to the new position. It lies, curled, beside Zack’s chest. Zack knows better than to grab it, so he leaves his own against Cloud’s back. He presses down, feeling the ridges of scar tissue that reside there.

Zack does not dare open his eyes. They do not lie as close as before, but the new distance has cultivated the intimacy, placing their foreheads only inches apart. 

By tomorrow morning, Zack will have deliberately forgotten this. If Cloud mentions it, all accusations will slide off Zack as though from waxed glass. And Cloud will accept his excuses because there is, after all, nothing to be gained from disturbing their peace. 

They sigh as one and drift away.

\---

In the morning, Zack had nothing to contest. Any questions that would have normally arisen at Zack’s uncharacteristic behavior were overlooked in favor of rubbing the sand from their eyes and preparing for the day ahead. Cloud’s schedule, though not that far removed from Zack’s, ensured that the blond had no time to sleep in if he wanted to fit in a block of exercise before having to leave the church.

The tight schedule made it easier, invoking less temptation. Zack would not, after all, replicate the illicit actions of the night in the light of morning. 

_Never again_ , Zack tells himself as he gently dabs the water from his face.

Unbending from his position over the sink, Zack lowers the towel and drapes it across the back of a pew, one which they had dragged into the washroom when it became clear that leaving various toiletries on the floor proved a hassle. The room is dark, cut through only by the trail of lantern light crawling in from the cracked-open door, so Zack treads carefully as he heads toward it, only to blink in surprise upon reentering the nave. 

Cloud, not even sparing him a glance, is shaking out a blanket in energetic bursts, the quilted fabric rising above his head. Zack realizes after a moment that he does not recognize its autumnal pattern, and when he comes closer, he notices a second unfamiliar blanket by Cloud’s feet. He wonders where Cloud had hidden them, as Zack had not spied them after returning from work. Their regular blankets remain in their corner, the top one rolled up and resting at the bottom of the makeshift pallet. 

“What’s all this?” Zack asks, curiosity laced into his smile. 

Giving the blanket one last shake, Cloud glances at him before leaning over the bed and spreading the quilt across it, effectively bulking up their pseudo mattress. “My wages,” Cloud finally answers as he smooths a hand over the fabric. 

“Eh?”

Cloud reaches for the second blanket and grabs its corners. “I asked Hanako if I could waive next week’s wages in exchange for these.” He shakes the second blanket out with a few perfunctory movements before adding it to the stack.

“Whoa, and she was just—” Zack flounders, the blankets evoking the memory of Cloud’s fingers, hot, on his back. “—okay with that?” 

“I mean,” Cloud says with a huff, “I had to convince her.” At Zack’s doubtful look, he shrugs. “But it wasn’t that hard.” 

Blankets must be more expensive than a week’s worth of paltry pay. Cloud’s boss is either exceptionally kind or a shrewd investor, as Cloud is now indebted to her and will not be able to quit at a moment’s notice.

Playfully emphasizing his suspicion, Zack slowly circles Cloud, steps back, and then plops onto the upgraded pallet. He only just keeps a moan in check, hiding it behind an exaggerated sigh as he digs his bare feet into the fabric. The blankets, though not largely thick on their own, combine to create the closest thing to a real bed they have had in years. 

Zack cannot dismiss the thought that Cloud has done this on purpose, that the timing is too opportune, too soon after his nightmare. He and Aerith talked about something like this once, he remembers: they promised to take care of each other, to protect one another. Back then, Zack had only skated the notion of sitting back and letting Cloud take the reins, but it returns now in full force. For once, he lets himself be selfish with the belief that Cloud did this with him in mind―and it hits him harder than he would ever have imagined. He understands that Cloud shows his gratitude in subtle ways, but if these actions do not, in fact, express gratitude, but instead shroud affection…

Zack is startled out of his meanderings as something bounces off his torso, and he blinks down at the poor excuse for a pillow that has landed in his lap. It is flatter than usual pillows go, but since they have gone without one for months, anything thicker would undoubtedly crick both their necks. 

“You sure know how to treat a guy.” Zack’s voice is not choked, but it is a near thing. He gently places the pillow beside him, choosing not to dwell on the fact that there is only one.

Avoiding his gaze, Cloud sits back on a pew and stretches out his legs with a sigh. “I’m treating myself.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, sleeping on the floor is rough after standing for hours,” Cloud declares matter-of-factly, leaning back on the bench and closing his eyes. “Not that you would know.”

“I’m sure it is,” Zack remarks, unable to keep the amusement from his tone even as his heart swells with the confirmation that Cloud is taking their well-being— _Zack’s_ well-being—into his own hands. Zack’s feelings aside, it speaks well of Cloud’s mental state, and that in itself is cause for celebration.

Smiling absently in Cloud’s direction, Zack braces his arm against his knee and buries his hand in his hair, only to wince when it gets caught on a tangle. “Hey, sunshine, pass me the comb?”

Cloud rouses from his doze, leans lengthwise across the pew, and wordlessly tosses it over. Thanking him as he catches it, Zack proceeds to methodically work out the tangles. Tying his hair into a tail has made the upkeep generally easier, but he has yet to become inured to the pulling sensation at his scalp. He would consider a haircut, but the thought of cutting it as short as he did as a teen resonates uncomfortably. Too much has changed. 

With a wry smile, Zack glances at the Buster Sword, remembering how he had once used its edge to awkwardly hack at the overgrown lengths of his hair after they had begun to impede his sight. Cloud had been the lucky one, his hair remaining untouched until Zack came across an actual pair of scissors. The haircuts had helped, strangely enough: it was easier to believe that, since their hair had barely grown, only a little time had passed.

“Hanako told me something interesting today.”

Zack looks up, banishing all thoughts of the past. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Shifting, Cloud props a foot against the bench and plonks his chin on top of his knee, interlocking his hands around his ankle. “Apparently, one of the security guards at the Honey Bee was fired this morning. Or, bouncer, I think she said.”

Zack almost asks how Cloud knows about the Honey Bee, but quickly bites his tongue when he realizes that he himself does not want to know. “Was he bad at bouncing?” Zack asks instead, grinning, to which Cloud rolls his eyes.

“If the rumors are true, he kept trying to feel up the women working there.”

Zack scowls, dropping his hands from his hair. “What a _dick_. That’s literally the opposite of what he was hired for.” Shaking his head, Zack crosses his arms and leans against the wall. Those women are just trying to scrape a living the only way they can; the last thing they need is betrayal from the very people meant to be guarding them. He taps the comb against his upper arm. “Your boss knew this?”

Cloud shrugs, chin rocking against his knee. “The shopkeepers like to gossip among themselves. It sounds like it’s a good gig, so it’s big news. That the job is open,” Cloud adds, frowning. “Not the other thing.”

Knitting his brows, Zack sighs deeply and _stews_ , considering. He has been so long isolated from the world—too focused on taking care of both himself and Cloud—that he has nearly forgotten that there are others just in need of protection. He is, Zack realizes with startling clarity, perfect for this job. It would not be anything quite as glorious as his boyhood dreams, but there is honor in it regardless. Besides, he would be closer to home, to _Cloud_ , if he landed it. Binh would likely miss him, but his grandsons would be able to pick up the slack. 

There is no time to waste. If rumors fly fast, then Zack needs to be one of the firsts to offer his application. First thing tomorrow morning, he decides; the Honey Bee will not be open to clientele that early, but it should house enough permanent residents to guarantee a constant, alternating staff. _Someone_ will be able to talk to him. 

Surfacing from his thoughts, Zack finds himself being scrutinized by Cloud’s narrowed gaze. When Zack lets out a questioning sound, he slowly unfolds and stands.

“I’m gonna go clean up,” Cloud says with a soft smile and walks toward the washroom, leaving Zack to his planning. 

\---

Gaudy in its resplendence at the height of consumer traffic, the Honey Bee in the gray of morning is revealed to be simply another building in the Midgar slums, one skirting the epithet of ramshackle. Zack has had little cause to walk past it on his route to work, so this is the first time he has ever seen it so dark. With the buzzing of its neon signs absent, the emitted silence falls into an uncanny aura between peaceful and eerie. 

Releasing a steadying breath, Zack approaches the entrance and lifts a hand to part the curtains hanging before it. Beyond waits a door, one surprisingly nondescript, with what appears to be a closed panel cut into the metal at eye-height. Not finding a doorbell, he knocks sharply three times before stepping back. He waits, fidgets with his sunglasses, and wonders, in hindsight, whether showing up before nine in the morning is early enough to be considered rude.

Before he can spiral into that thought, Zack catches the sound of footsteps and then straightens as the panel on the door slides open to reveal a set of tired-looking, brown eyes.

“Buddy,” says a gruff voice, “we ain’t gonna be open for _hours_. Get your rocks off somewhere else.”

“Sorry, no, I’m not a customer,” Zack quickly explains, waving his hands in entreaty. “I’m here about the job opening. For the security position,” he tacks on, just in case they are in need of…any other employees. “I’m Zack.”

The man behind the door visibly pauses, scrutinizing Zack with interest. Zack, on his part, calls upon his friendliest smile and attempts to remain still. Following Cloud’s advice, he tugged on his tank top this morning so that his arms would be in plain sight. At first glance, he should be well suited to the role. 

“Hm. We haven’t advertised for the job yet,” the man comments, tone casual even as his eyes narrow in suspicion. 

_He’s wondering if I know the guy they fired_ , Zack realizes with a start. “I heard from one of the shopkeepers,” Zack clarifies sheepishly. “My friend works for Hanako.” 

At that, the doorman rolls his eyes upward and blows out an annoyed breath. “Figures. Alright, wait here. Lemme see if anyone’s available.” 

“Thanks!” Zack chirps as the door panel slides shut. He settles against the wall to wait, crossing his arms. Just as quickly, he uncrosses them and shakes them out. 

With a pained smile, Zack closes his eyes and knocks his heel against the wall. Although his confidence is rarely a fickle creature, his gut clenches in anticipation all the same. Zack usually performs best when relying on his instincts, but the thought of winging this interview filled him with a nagging sense of dread. Ultimately, charging in without a plan has only worked so many times for him. And so, unwilling to self-sabotage, Zack asked Cloud for help. Together, they brainstormed the questions he might be asked—and how he should answer in turn. Unlike Binh, the Honey Bee would have no point of reference as to his capabilities. 

At Binh’s, he was restless. Today, he is calmer, preventively soothed by the steady confidence in his friend’s eyes. Cloud, though not especially self-assured by nature, had spoken this morning as they walked to Sector 6 as if Zack had already been hired. This weight of expectation might crush another, but Zack is buoyed. If Cloud believes Zack will land this job, then Zack will. Cloud bid Zack live, and he did. In comparison, this is nothing. 

Zack pushes off the wall at the sound of returning footsteps and smiles when the doorman sneaks a peek through the panel. 

“Alright,” the man says as he pulls back and begins undoing the locks. “Verre has time to see you. Zack, you said?”

“Yep!” Zack confirms, practically bouncing on his feet at the news. “Good to meet you, ah…?” 

“Call me Thomas.”

As Thomas waves him inside, Zack hops through the open door and then blinks dumbly when he has to raise his head to meet his eyes. Zack is not ungodlily tall, but given that he is surrounded by shorter people on a regular basis, this man’s height is jarring. Beyond that, Thomas is muscle-bound and—despite being somewhere in his forties, if Zack’s guess is accurate—all-around intimidating. 

Mako-enhanced, Zack can spin the Buster Sword with uncanny ease, but he does not project the same presence as Thomas does—at least, not while still recovering from the effects of starvation. If this is the look of the kind of person they are aiming to hire… Well, it simply means that Zack must not waste the effort they put into preparing him for this interview; surely, his answers must be more important than his muscle mass. 

“Come on—it’s this way.” Thomas points sideward, and Zack finally tears his gaze away to take in the aptly hexagonal lobby. He has little time to scan the garish decor before Thomas is leading him through a door, along a service corridor, and up a flight of stairs. “Verre is the owner of the Honey Bee,” Thomas explains as he lumbers up the steps, “so you better show her the proper respect.” 

“I wouldn’t not have,” Zack answers sincerely, to which Thomas scoffs quietly as they reach the landing to another corridor, this space looking far homier than the display downstairs. 

“See that you do.” 

Zack follows Thomas to the last door on the left, keeping his steps as light as possible under the assumption that the brothel’s residential employees are sleeping off a late shift. Thomas, too, keeps his knock politely subdued. When a voice calls from within, he props open the door and steps back.

“Good luck, man,” Thomas whispers, waving his hand with a welcoming flourish. “Maybe lose the shades,” he adds as Zack turns into the room. “They make you look like a douche.” 

Zack bites back laughter as the door closes and he comes face-to-face with a woman sitting behind an imposing metal desk. As Zack approaches, she lifts her head from an expanse of paperwork, a pen nearly falling out from the side of her dark, pinned hair. Wearing a white collared shirt whose right cuff is stained with ink, she resembles a harried scholar moonlighting as a businessperson. 

Soundlessly, she watches him for several arduous moments. It is the intensity of her gaze, mature and unimpressed, that sobers Zack. He imagines that he has encountered this look in only a few others, all of them seasoned military commanders. It is perhaps this feature that causes Zack to stand at attention, not even daring to take in the details of the modest office.

“Well,” Verre finally drawls, eyes narrowing, “you must be the candidate.” She unfolds from her hunched position, drags a notepad toward herself, and, as though in afterthought, pulls the wayward pen from her head. Tapping it as she flips through the pad, she nods pointedly. “Please sit down.” 

Thanking her quietly, Zack steps forward and slides into one of the two chairs facing the desk. Momentarily freed from her arresting gaze, he inspects the shelves of folders and books covering the left wall, as well as the meticulously organized desktop before him. The room is lit with a single desk lamp, its light just soft enough that Zack feels himself relaxing. Still, out of habit, he notes the window at his right, its panes large enough to fit a person through if the glass were shattered—should he need to escape, it will suffice.

“I am Madam Verre, the proprietor of this establishment,” the woman finally says, drawing Zack’s attention. “You may call me Verre—or just ma’am, if you’re feeling up to it,” she quips with a quirk of a brow. She quiets, and it is only when she raises her second brow expectantly that Zack realizes that she is awaiting a response.

“Oh, I’m Zack! It’s good to meet you, uh, ma’am,” he hastens to add, finding himself falling back into military protocol; it is a wonder that he did not bestow her with a captaincy. “Thank you for taking the time to see me so early.”

Verre hums lowly as she makes a note on her paper. Curious, Zack steals a glance at it, only to find that the language written there is unknown to him. Verre seems to catch him at it, but she merely smirks when Zack refocuses on her face. 

“So. _Zack_ ,” Verre repeats. “Does that come with a last name?” 

Zack, panicking, clears his throat to stall for time.

Names, somehow, did not come up during last night’s brainstorming session. Desperate, he casts around for any name other than Fair and immediately lands on Hewley. Fortunately, his synapses fire just quickly enough to conclude that this choice is far, far worse, so, naturally, the name that actually leaves his lips is… 

“Strife.” 

Screaming internally, Zack is slapped with a particularly vivid vision of both Angeal and Tseng dropping their faces into their palms, followed by Cloud doing the same. Cloud, who is decidedly just as much of a fugitive as Zack, is going to kill him. 

“Very well, Mr. Strife. Let’s keep this brief.”

On second thought, Zack decides with a goofy grin, perhaps this is the perfect ruse. After all, even Cissnei did not know Cloud’s name when she first caught up to them in the wilds. Loath as he is to admit it, Cloud did not especially stand out to anyone—besides Zack—at Shinra, and the scientists in Nibelheim only ever referred to them by number. It is not the worst disguise, he tells himself, and Cloud never needs to know. 

These thoughts all skate the outer shell of his mind, while the others, deep-seated and true, revel in the inception of this offhand notion. The name, and all that it entails, does not scare him at all. 

Verre leans her elbows against the desktop and slots her fingers together. “Normally, I wouldn’t give the time of day to any asshole that wandered in from the street on a whim—” Zack winces and opens his mouth before thinking better of it. “—but this is a job that I would prefer filled as soon as possible. And since my manager disappointed me with her last choice, I will be conducting this interview _myself_.”

As Zack wonders whether he should apologize for essentially barging into her place of business, Verre retrieves her pen and asks, “Now, do you have any previous experience that would be applicable here?”

“I, ah, have a good throwing arm,” Zack jokes, voice nearly cracking from nerves. When Verre remains stoic, he clears his throat and falls back on the words he and Cloud had so painstakingly cultivated in preparation for this. 

“Yeah, I have several years of both armed and unarmed fighting experience working for a private employer. I was even promoted a few times. I’m good with people, too, so I was entrusted with leading others.” He hesitates, knowing that this next bit is a long shot. “I wish I could give you a reference, but my contract with them was very, um, particular. I can’t give the name without breaking some privacy agreements.”

The latter spiel was something Cloud cooked up, but, for all they know, it holds truth. For one, Zack suspects that they technically lost all legal ownership of their bodies and identities the moment Shinra’s R and D lab slapped a number on them. Anyway, it is not as though he can put Shinra on his resume without raising red flags. Some employers might be thrilled to have an ex-SOLDIER working for them, but it is hardly conducive to Zack wishing to remain anonymous. 

“I see,” Verre finally says, pursing her lips as her shrewd gaze slips from Zack’s face to roam across his upper body. Discomfited, Zack shifts in the chair, wondering what it is that she sees, whether she finds him wanting. For all his talk, he must seem young— _too_ young, perhaps, for the years of claimed experience.

Seemingly finished with her impromptu inspection, Verre’s glare rises, lingering on his scar before returning to his eyes. “Why don’t you take off your sunglasses,” she says, the order skillfully disguised as a request. “It seems rather rude to keep them on.”

_She knows._

The window is but five feet away, so Zack keeps it in mind as he touches his fingertips to the temples of the sunglasses, biting his lip. “I was near the Gongaga reactor when it exploded,” he recites and smiles awkwardly as he lifts the lenses. “I got Mako poisoning, but I don’t want people to mistake me for a SOLDIER, so the glasses…” 

“Hm, indeed,” Verre murmurs, staring. “That admittedly wouldn’t be good for business… You would need to keep those on at this job.” At her pronouncement, Zack stills, daring to let a smile peek out of the corner of his mouth. “If you _were to_ get this job,” Verre clarifies with a raised brow, but Zack does not believe that he is imagining the mirth in the gesture. 

Somehow, she _knows_ , and Zack knows that she knows, and, likely, she knows that Zack knows that she knows. And yet, Zack has not been asked to leave the premises. Even if he remains here solely as a curiosity—how many, after all, have encountered a SOLDIER deserter?—then at least he still has Verre’s attention. 

“You can keep those off for now,” Verre says with a nod and returns to scribbling in her notepad when Zack places the sunglasses on the desk. “This position has only a couple responsibilities, but both are paramount. The core of the job is to remain at the door and only allow customers with passes to, mm, pass through. The second is de-escalation—that is, dealing with any troublemakers. How did you put it?” She tilts her head sideward. “Ones you’d need to throw out?” Verre’s mouth quirks up into a self-satisfied smile when Zack chuckles. “This is why we always have at least two guards during shifts. You would only have evening shifts. Does all that sound doable to you thus far?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Good. We at the Honey Bee take pride in taking care of our employees. It is not an easy living, but we make do.” For the first time since Zack entered her office, Verre looks away, her eyes a cradle for old, lulled memories. He imagines that, in his darker moments, his resemble hers in all ways save for the mascara separating her lashes. 

“We do what we gotta do to survive,” Zack mutters, wondering just how many lives he cut down to be still sitting here, alive.

Startling, Verre focuses back on him before gripping her pen more forcefully. “Indeed. As I was saying, you would sometimes have to deal with unruly customers. So, how would you act in the following scenario? A customer, one who has a pass, is with one of our employees and is demanding something of her they did not agree on beforehand. This man starts acting violently when she refuses. How would you deal with the situation?” 

How would Zack _deal with the situation?_ He would charge in, bullheaded and apoplectic, and slam the man to the ground—but that cannot be his answer, not when there is a civilian nearby that cannot be caught in the crossfire. No, he has to be far more strategic than that, which is, unfortunately, not his strength. Still, if there is one thing that Zack is good for, it is a human shield.

“It, it really depends,” Zack starts, knitting his brows in thought. “Each situation is different, but I would put myself between the attacker and employee first, if I can. Then, I would disarm him of any visible weapons. Then…I would incapacitate him. Maybe tackle him or put him in a sleeper hold?” 

Zack scratches at his temple, inhaling sharply as he imagines Angeal frowning down at him. “I’m sorry. You usually don’t have this much time to plan when someone’s attacking you—it’s messing with me a little… I guess, I’d throw him out and check on the employee to make sure that she’s okay. Oh, um—” Zack leans forward, bracing his arms against his thighs. “—unless we need to press charges! I wouldn’t throw him out in that case. Wait, would that be bad for business…? Can you blacklist customers?”

Verre, after raising her head from where she was taking sporadic notes, nods. “We can revoke passes, yes.”

“That, then,” Zack concludes with a few decisive nods.

“Noted,” Verre mutters, ducking her mouth toward her chest. If Zack did not know better, he would assume that she was laughing at him. “Now, given the same scenario, what would you do if the employee was male?”

“I wouldn’t do anything different,” Zack answers, pouring every ounce of conviction he owns into the words. 

Verre nods gravely as she makes a quick note. “Okay, just one last question. It’s a cliché, but… Mr. Strife, why do you want this job?”

 _That’s an easy one_ , Zack thinks, smiling.

“I like protecting people. My last employer didn’t give me many opportunities to do that.” Zack should stop there, but, too candid for tact, he allows his unstoppered words to flow forth. “I also want to be closer to home while still being able to—” _Provide for him._ “—support my family, small as it is. Nothing else around here pays well enough.”

“Oh? Are you with someone?”

The man who last held this position was fired for bothering the women—a man who was, most likely, either single or uncommitted. Verre, Zack observes, is watching him closely. Most employers, he suspects, would focus on the subject of payment, but she latched onto one innocuous word. So, after stealing Cloud’s name with nary a kiss to seal the deal, Zack reaches out for one more sleight of hand.

“Yes. I’m pretty much married to him.”

The declaration is but a period punctuating a sentence that has already been written. It is carved upon Zack’s heart, letters sure and resigned to being unrequited. Reeling, Zack wonders what words are scrawled upon Cloud’s, whether his name could ever be nestled between its chambers. When he lets himself imagine it, the vision blossoms before it promptly wilts, leaving him exhausted and unsatisfied. 

Zack lifts his head, unsure of when it had listed. “I’m a lucky man.”

“Gross,” says Verre, lips curling in amusement. Despite himself, Zack chuckles. “How long have you been together?”

“It’s been almost five years, give or take.” _If you count the lab_. The inside joke, dark and bitter as chocolate, takes shape in his smile. Still, the fantasy of Cloud at Zack’s side, steadfast through years of peril, smooths out the curve. His jaw relaxes at the sweeter taste. “We were friends before that.”

Verre’s gaze flits away to the door for a moment. “Friends do make the best partners. Now—” She clears her throat and slides her notepad away. “—enough of that. Mr. Strife, in the interest of not repeating the mistake with our former employee, I am willing to give you a trial run before making a final decision.”

Surprised, Zack straightens in his seat—embroiled in the toils of his heart, he momentarily forgot why he was even here in the first place. “Really? Thank you!”

“Calm down. You don’t have the job yet,” Verre warns. “Would you be available this evening? At five?”

“This evening?” Zack repeats, calculating whether he can beg off his dinner shift at the restaurant. Considering that Binh has been nothing but supportive since Zack rejoined his ranks, he determines that his odds are favorable. “I think I can arrange that.”

“Wonderful.” Leaning back, Verre intertwines her fingers and nods. “In that case, we’ll see you at five. You’ll be partnering with Thomas—who will also be the one to show you out. Dismissed.”

Without a thought, Zack snaps off a picture-perfect salute, only to falter in horrified embarrassment at his ingrained response. Verre, on her part, smiles mischievously before glancing at the sunglasses lying on her desk. 

“Keep those glasses on, soldier,” she orders and pointedly returns to her paperwork.

Clearing his throat, Zack redons the sunglasses, says a deferential “ma’am,” and quickly escapes the office, lest Verre change her mind. Out in the corridor, Thomas pushes himself off the wall from where he was waiting just a few feet away.

“Well?” he asks, eyes fixed on a point past Zack’s shoulder.

“We’re trying him out tonight,” Verre calls from her office, voice pitched low.

“Nice job, kid,” Thomas says with a grin before urging Zack forward and closing Verre’s door. “Let me walk you out.”

With a bounce in his step, Zack follows Thomas to the exit, formulating plans as he goes. He will still have time to work his lunch shift, Zack reasons, so he should be able to manage both as long as Binh is willing to give him the night off. Since the man had been complaining about his grandsons getting underfoot without work to distract them—yet another reason to step down as dishwasher—Zack predicts that he would be more than happy to delegate the job back to them. 

And then, there is Cloud. Cloud will need to be told now, and not just because Zack might not have time in between his shift and this evening. No, Cloud needs to know because he stayed up with Zack brainstorming, offering him words when Zack’s ran out. Zack could not have gotten this far without him.

Waving an enthusiastic goodbye to Thomas, Zack jogs away from the Honey Bee in the direction of the general store. The Wall Market is only just beginning to stir, its menagerie of lights flickering on when Zack rushes past as though responding to him in afterthought, awoken at the prospect of a customer. In contrast, the general store is the only building showing signs of patronage: a man exits the store just as Zack arrives at the door. Zack steps aside to let him pass before ducking inside. 

Zack has frequented this store on multiple supply runs, but this is his first visit since Cloud began working here, so it takes him a moment to adjust to the unexpectedly endearing sight of the blond wearing a gray clerk apron. Standing partially turned away from the door on top of a step stool, Cloud takes no notice of him as he stretches to place a package atop a sparsely stocked set of shelves. Grudgingly, Zack forces himself to look away to focus on the shopkeeper situated behind the counter, who smiles when he locks eyes with hers.

“Welcome!” she—Hanako, Zack assumes—calls. “Please let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“Hi!” Zack points over at Cloud, who had swiftly turned his head at the sound of his voice. “Do you mind if I talk to my friend for a second? It’s important.” 

Seemingly deflating at the lost sale, Hanako drops her smile and huffs out a sigh. “Fine. Go ahead, toothpaste boy.”

Zack, already having lifted a leg to step forward, pauses. “Er, what?”

Hanako lifts her brows and, punctuating every other word with a finger pointing in his direction, says, “You’re the one who begged me to reopen the store so you could buy toothpaste. I know—I remember everyone.”

Dumbfounded, Zack steals a glance at Cloud, who stares back at him and silently mouths, “toothpaste,” only just holding in his laughter. 

Zack shifts in place and mutters, “I wouldn’t call it _begged_.” Before he can be contradicted, he scurries over to Cloud, who cocks his head down at him when Zack reaches his side. 

“How’d it go, toothpaste boy?” Cloud asks lowly, Mako eyes glinting. 

Craning, Zack takes a moment to appreciate Cloud from this new perspective, marveling at the pulse of life in his eyes. Zack cannot alleviate all of Cloud’s ills, but this—this change of environment, this renewal of purpose—has begun to mend. He wishes that he could take off his sunglasses to admire him fully, only to realize that he absolutely can, since Hanako would have already seen his eyes, let alone Cloud’s own. He perches the glasses atop his head and grins.

“Really good, _chocoboy_ ,” Zack whispers back, not wanting Hanako to overhear. 

When Cloud pivots on the step stool to face him, faltering infinitesimally, Zack automatically offers a bracing forearm, which the blond grabs to steady himself. “Yeah?” Cloud continues without a hitch. “What did they say?”

“I have a shot. They’re giving me a trial run tonight!”

Cloud’s fingers tighten against his skin as he lets loose a smile, and Zack cannot help but match it. “Zack, that’s great.”

“Yeah,” Zack agrees with a chuckle, watching carefully as Cloud steps down, and then keeps his arm aloft when the blond fails to let go. He is sorely tempted to extend his arm just so, to graze his fingers against Cloud’s side. “As long as I don’t mess it up,” he adds, mostly joking.

Cloud tilts his head, glancing away in visible thought. “If you do, which you won’t, you’ll get away with it by being charming.”

“Hey, charming as long as I’m not trying, right?” Zack asks playfully, suddenly remembering a strained conversation from weeks ago. He cannot say what possessed him to drag it out of the past, but acknowledging it, comparing it to Cloud’s words now…Zack thinks that he might finally understand what Cloud had failed to convey.

Cloud winces. “Zack, that wasn’t—”

They turn their heads in unison toward Hanako as she pointedly clears her throat. When Cloud looks back at him warily, Zack just smiles and shakes his head. “I know. Are you okay getting dinner by yourself? I’m heading straight to the Bee after my first shift.”

Despite being visibly displeased at the derailment, Cloud nods slowly. “Course. You just think about your trial thing. And don’t forget to eat.” He audibly exhales through his nose when Hanako begins to tap at the register with increasing fervor. “You better head out.”

“Yeah, alright.” Zack waits a loaded moment before asking, “You gonna let me go?”

Cloud lowers his gaze and then retracts his hand from Zack’s forearm with an embarrassed grumble. Laughing, Zack reaches out— _dares_ , even after the abyssal lies he told not even an hour before—and squeezes Cloud’s shoulder gently.

“I’ll see you later, sunshine. Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it,” Cloud replies, smirking, “but good luck.”

\---

“Nervous?” Thomas asks, nudging Zack’s upper arm with an elbow.

“Nah,” Zack lies and forces himself to stop fiddling with the crimson door hangings framing the entrance to the Honey Bee. He turns back to gaze into the night, its darkness saturated against the contrast of the brothel’s neon signs. To a lonely soul, this building must have the same value as a storm-battered lighthouse. “Just appreciating the decor.”

Thomas, the more formidable half of their human-formed barricade, glances at Zack from the corner of his eye, scoffs, and promptly shakes his head. He had already been posted outside the Honey Bee when Zack arrived for his trial run with only minutes to spare, panting with exertion. Feeling unaccountably guilty for leaving Binh in the lurch despite the man insisting that they could manage, Zack had worked partway into the dinner shift and so nearly missed his train. Fortunately, Thomas only gave him a once-over before commending him for his hustle. 

“Like I said, most regulars know the drill,” Thomas mutters, seemingly not taking Zack’s words to heart. Admittedly, Zack appreciates the support; a mission with these parameters would not have even fazed him back in his SOLDIER days, but he is painfully out of practice. “And any newbies are usually too chickenshit to start trouble, so you should be fine. Just ask for passes and look scary if they don’t have any.”

“Right.” Zack nods to himself and sets his jaw when he notices some ambling activity in the distance. “What if they ask how to get a pass?”

Thomas actually turns his head fully toward Zack, breaking the impression of an unbreachable front. “You don’t know? Man, Verre wasn’t kidding.” Before Zack can ask what that could possibly mean, Thomas explains, “They get them from the person who controls the Market.”

“ _Ah_. Got it.” Don Corneo, in other words. Zack cringes to know that he might end up working indirectly for said criminal boss, but…would it really be such a step-down from Shinra? Both deal in their own interests under the guise of helping others, after all. This time, at least, Zack would be in a better place to make a difference, however small.

“Agh, don’t look so glum,” Thomas chides. “Verre rules this place with an iron fist. You won’t have to deal with—” Frowning, he makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. “—all of that.”

“Okay, that’s—” Inhaling, Zack readjusts his sunglasses as he finally spots a rowdy group of what look like above-Plate businessmen coming out of the gloom. “That’s good to hear.”

Thomas crosses his arms as he, too, braces himself against the first tide of the evening. Murmuring out of the corner of his mouth, he says, “Between you and me, Verre likes you. Thought you seemed sincere. Just be how you were with her and you’ll do fine.”

Zack spares him a grateful look, but he has not a moment left to speak before the jackals descend and the work truly begins. And yet, once he takes the first step, stretching out his social muscles, Zack flows into the rest as he would into an old, but well trodden, dance. True to Thomas’s words, the Honey Bee’s customers are largely respectful, not wanting to cause a fuss in a place they would not necessarily wish to be caught visiting. Dealing with them is as easy as breathing.

The only thing resembling a challenge, Zack finds, is keeping track of how many clients they let pass through, as the brothel can only attend to so many people at once. Even then, the hostess kindly whispers a warning through the door slot whenever they reach maximum capacity, so Zack’s mental count is mainly for his own benefit. At that point, the clients begin to gather around the brothel in clusters, waiting their turn without the courtesy of queueing. If anything, remembering whose turn is next is the true difficulty, if only because Zack suspects that a fight is more likely to break out here than inside.

The first hiccup of the evening, however, occurs during a lull, when the courtyard before the Honey Bee stands empty. A lone man approaches the entrance and, before Zack can even say hello, begins to walk past them with a cheeky wave.

“Hold on a sec,” Zack calls out as he darts in an arm to physically bar the man from entering. “Where’s your pass, friend?”

To his credit, the man steps back with a sheepish expression, but he immediately follows it up with a smarmy grin. “Okay, you got me. I forgot it at home, but I come here all the time. Can I go in anyway? She’s _waiting_ for me.”

Knowing that it would show irresolution, Zack does not so much as glance at Thomas for confirmation. If Shinra has taught him anything, it is that his superiors would want him to follow orders, and he was, after all, told to ask for passes. If so, then there must be a good reason for having them in the first place. “Sorry, but I can’t let you through without a pass.”

Smarmy’s mouth falls open, and he quickly points at Thomas. “I’m a regular! That’s Thomas. He _literally_ knows me.” 

This time, Zack does look to his fellow bouncer, but Thomas, face impassive, merely shrugs, apparently following Zack’s lead. If this evening is Zack’s trial run, then this moment is indubitably a test.

Smarmy huffs out in disbelief, mutters, “I can’t believe this,” and proceeds to stride toward the entrance anyway. Zack, already anticipating this, smoothly grabs his shoulders and spins both himself and Smarmy in a wide arc, depositing the man back where he came from.

“Sorry, but you’ll have to bring your pass first,” Zack repeats cheerily, pretending like he absolutely did not just manhandle a customer.

Smarmy, thankfully, appears more confused than furious, no doubt thrown off by Zack’s unwillingness to threaten him. The man finally raises his arms in exasperation and stomps off into the night, hopefully to find his pass and not to plan vengeance, Zack thinks with concern.

From beside him, Thomas lets out a low whistle. “You were pretty strict on poor Yozi.”

“Well, yeah,” Zack answers, shooting Thomas a grin. “You said those passes are important. We can’t let just anyone in, so I’m guessing they show who’s had a background check, right?”

For a moment, Thomas just looks back at him, blank faced, before he slowly shakes his head, never losing eye contact. “The passes just mean they’ve paid.”

“Oh.” Zack cannot measure which he is feeling more of: disappointment or embarrassment. In retrospect, of course the passes would not have indicated a cleared background check. If Corneo’s men are the ones giving them out, then they surely care more about the gil than whether people treat the Honey Bee’s employees with respect.

“Look alive,” Thomas orders, gesturing with his chin. “We’ve got more incoming.”

Zack spends the following half hour in varying levels of distress, only just managing to keep his anxiety off his face, for he cannot banish the thought that he has made a fatal misstep. Part of his job is to welcome clients, so sending one away without just cause must count as a mark against him. The thought of coming home, only to shake his head in failure, staggers him with shame. 

Still…Cloud would not berate him then, nor would he do so now. _You’ll get away with it_ , he said, _by being charming_. And so, Zack rallies, and when Yozi returns, grumbling and impatient, Zack inspects the offered pass with an unyielding smile.

“Thanks for understanding,” Zack says, tucking in as much warmth into his tone now that he cannot rely on his shaded eyes to speak for him. “I gotta do things by the book, you know?”

“Next time, I’ll just tie it to a string on my neck, huh?” Yozi bites out, snatching his pass back out of Zack’s hand.

Undeterred, Zack steps aside and waves a welcoming arm. “Or sew it to your jacket. Or stick it to your forehead. I’ll accept either option!” 

Seemingly surprising even himself, Yozi lets out a chuckle, then quickly sets his face back into a scowl, and rushes past them to escape Zack’s persistent cheeriness. 

“That’s one way to do it,” Thomas comments mildly.

When Thomas fails to offer anything else, Zack nods and looks back out at the courtyard, resolved to put this one faux pas behind him and focus on the present. Luckily, the rest of the shift—shorter than what an actual one would be—continues without incident. It is not long before a woman with cropped, ash-brown hair arrives to relieve both Thomas and Zack of their duties, calling to the former that she can single-handedly hold the fort for now.

Dread dragging behind him like a weight, Zack follows Thomas through the Honey Bee’s service walkways until they reach the second-floor landing, where Thomas asks him to wait while he confers with Verre. Struggling to keep his mind blank, Zack leans his arms against the banister and finally lets himself release a weary sigh. He did the job well enough for the most part, didn’t he? Perhaps, if they are desperate to hire someone quickly, they would be kind enough to overlook the incident with Yozi and hire him on the condition that he would not repeat the same behavior. It could be worth a shot, even worth a bit of begging if it meant he could be closer to _home_.

Zack startles when a door opens behind him and two pairs of feet shuffle out. A couple of female employees, clad for the night’s work, give him speculative looks when they pass him on the stairs. At a loss for how else to respond, Zack smiles and gives a little wave before focusing on the wood grain of the banister. He finds a whorl resembling a dancing chocobo and begins to methodically trace its outline with a finger. After a few moments’ tarry, the feet slowly resume their path and head downstairs. 

Ages pass before Thomas finally peeks out of Verre’s office and beckons Zack toward him. Eager to get it over with, Zack speeds down the hall, only slowing when he reaches the threshold. Thomas remains standing at the back of the room after he shuts them all inside, but Zack gingerly takes the same chair he had this morning and then smiles across at Verre. If he is going down, then he will do so with grace. 

Verre—looking less, this time, like an absentminded academic—mirrors his expression. “Thomas just gave me a rundown of how well you did tonight. Now, it would be ideal if you could start tomorrow, but I would understand if that’s too last minute. Could you manage to start the day after tomorrow?”

Zack blinks. “Sorry, I…I got the job?”

“Was that not clear?” Verre asks with a quirked brow. She pulls out a desk drawer and proceeds to rifle through it. 

“No, I just—” Zack glances back at Thomas for clarification. “What about the thing with Yozi?”

“Are you kidding? That was fucking hilarious.”

“You de-escalated the situation without so much as a swear,” Verre continues patiently, drawing back Zack’s attention. “You are exactly the sort of person I want working for me. You should be taking notes, darling,” she adds with a pointed look at Thomas. The latter, when Zack checks, rolls his eyes and grins in response.

“Yeah, yeah…”

Zack sits back properly and tilts his head, considering. That is…true. He had been so caught on the fact that he reacted to Yozi that he did not even consider that the nature of said reaction would affect Verre’s decision. Zack merely acted on instinct—it only now occurs to him that another might have used excessive force to ensure compliance. 

“Thank you,” Zack finally manages, his heart pounding with both pride and gratitude. “I won’t let you down. I think I can start the day after tomorrow, yeah, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Wonderful.” Verre unearths a slim folder from the drawer and grabs a pen from the container on the corner of her desk. “You’ll be receiving one-hundred and thirty gil per evening shift, with Tuesdays off. If you need to move any of your shifts, don’t bother me about it—either ask Thomas or sort it out among your coworkers.”

Zack, gaping at the sum, can only nod. Funny how a number can appear so small from one side of a lifetime and yet shimmer with opportunity from the other.

“Now, as a legitimate business, the Honey Bee, of course, submits annual expense reports during tax season, including how much we pay our employees overall. However, someone making one-thirty a day would still qualify for—” Verre pins Zack down with a heavy gaze. “—tax exemption. Said someone would not need to file taxes, _if you catch my drift_.” 

In other words, Zack will still be able to float under the radar, with neither his nor Cloud’s last name finding its way into any bureaucratic records. They can, thanks to Tseng’s subterfuge, remain “terminated.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Zack repeats, gratified to discover an ally in such an unexpected place.

With a decisive nod, Verre retrieves a sheet from the folder and slides it over along with the pen. “Welcome aboard.”

Zack has learned much from a lifetime of mistakes: instead of signing the contract immediately, he leans forward and begins to read.

\---

Money does not bring happiness, but it offers the chance to act upon opportunity. Money means food in their larder. Money means clothes on their backs. Money could mean a place of their own, one with a kitchen, a working bathroom. Money could even mean, one day, someplace other than Midgar.

Someday, Zack will return them to where the sky is not so distant, but, for now, they will remain underground, safe, and bide their time.

It is on this high that Zack flies home, that he politely knocks on the doors before rushing into the church and down the aisle. Cloud barely has time to rise from the floor before Zack grabs his midsection and hoists him up with a delighted cheer. Yelping, Cloud clutches onto Zack’s shoulders and recenters their gravity before they can both topple over into a heap.

“We did it, _we did it!_ ” 

“Don’t you mean, _you_ did it?” Cloud breathes out into his ear. Taking pity on Cloud’s poor ribs—and his own sanity—Zack lets him down, but he cannot bear to move away. Closing his eyes, Zack wraps his arms around Cloud’s torso and leans their heads together. Two hands, diffident and warm, lock into each other at the small of his back.

“Don’t be modest,” Zack whispers, subtly inhaling. “You helped so much.”

“I was just—” Cloud’s voice, his mouth, presses against his heart. Zack imagines a bruise upon his chest from where his blood has flocked to the sound, blooming into flowers. “You’re welcome.” Pushing lightly at Zack’s sides, Cloud steps away and tilts his head toward their pew. “I have leftovers, if you want some. You can tell me about it while you eat.”

Zack can barely keep a minimum of two feet between them, too overcome with joy to temper his besotted heart. He trails Cloud as the latter scrounges up a meal and then beckons the blond to sit close as he relates his evening. Zack does nothing to veil his nerves over his actions with Yozi, and, as expected, Cloud only rolls his eyes and encourages Zack to continue when he pauses in embarrassment. 

“Does anyone even pay taxes under the Plate?” Cloud asks, brows furrowed, after Zack finishes paraphrasing Verre’s speech. Visibly exhausted, he holds his chin in the crook of his arm, the latter propped up against a raised knee.

It seems cruel to be telling him about the gil Zack will earn in the face of the thirty-five Cloud receives for a job that dips greedily into his reserves, but Zack can hardly withhold the information. Even so, Cloud only smiled when Zack confessed to it, so he can only hope that he knows the unspoken truth, that his worth does not depend on how much gil he brings to the table. Regardless of who earns it, it belongs to them both. 

“Besides businesses, you mean?” Zack shifts his shoulders against the stone column at his back, glancing up at the vaulted ceiling. “If someone makes enough to qualify, they’re probably criminals, so probably not?”

Huffing out a weak laugh, Cloud closes his eyes and angles his temple even more into the skin of his arm. Zack cannot help the flash of frustration that besets him: how dare Cloud appear so soft and supple when Zack’s already paper-thin walls have been worn down by the day’s imaginings? Frowning, Zack extends a hand and nudges at Cloud’s ankle, eliciting an annoyed grunt.

“Go to sleep, sunshine. I can clean up.”

“No.” Cloud, snapping his eyes open, unfolds and shakes his head vigorously. “I’m fine. I’m awake.”

Zack sighs, capitulating. He is, at least, less likely to slip up when Cloud’s watchful eyes remain to arrest him in place, but his fatigue only confirms a thought Zack chewed upon as he read through his contract. Zack’s trial shift this evening may have been shorter, but a real one would start at five and end at half past eleven; that is, Cloud’s shift would end just as Zack’s would begin. 

“I guess that’s the only downside,” Zack muses. When Cloud turns to stare at him blankly, he explains, “We’ll be working alternating shifts now. We’ll really only get to spend time together on days off.”

Considering everything they have gone through, it seems fitting that, for once, routine banality is what will keep him from Cloud. An entire army could not manage what a semi-normal life has done. Zack sighs, staring down into his empty bowl. Well, they will always have mornings. After all, there seems little point in remaining in bed when there is no Cloud to enjoy it with, not when there are a number of things Zack could be doing instead.

“We could…” Cloud mutters. When he fails to continue, Zack lets out a little inquiring sound, bobbing his head. “Well, we could still eat together…if you want. We both have breaks, right?”

“Cloud!” Zack exclaims, leaning forward and pointing with both hands despite the bowl hooked into one. “You are absolutely right!”

Cloud chuckles and reaches over to grab the bowl—wisely, as Zack is certain it would have fallen within a few seconds due to his excitement. “Yeah? I only get thirty minutes, but…”

“Same,” Zack replies, an inkling of a plan already percolating in the back of his mind, one that will require Aerith’s aid. “Let’s say, whoever’s free gets the food. I’ll get lunch. You get dinner. Deal?”

“Deal,” Cloud agrees with a smile. 

“Awesome.” Zack hops up to his feet and steals back his bowl before Cloud can protest. “Day after tomorrow, then,” he confirms as he strides to the washroom. “Tomorrow, I gotta tell Binh about the new job—not really looking forward to that, if I’m honest, sunshine—but then I’ll get a whole morning off and—”

“Before I forget—” Cloud interrupts, calling over to him. Zack turns around, raising his brows in inquiry. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

 _Anything_.

“Sure, just name it,” Zack replies casually, shushing the maudlin voice nibbling at the back of his brain that disallows him from answering in any other way. 

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” Cloud starts, hunching his shoulders, “but I’ve been practicing with your sword in my free time.” He pauses before slowly pivoting his head, granting Zack a wary look. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Sunshine, I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear that I’ll share everything with you,” Zack answers with a disbelieving laugh. What compunctions could he have about Cloud borrowing his sword? His sword, his bed, his heart—Cloud can have them all. 

Ducking his head, Cloud shrugs. Zack looks on fondly and thinks, _I told someone I’m married to you today_. 

“I, uh, was wondering if you could give me some pointers. They taught us the basics at Shinra, but we were using regulation swords…”

“Say no more!” Zack raises a hand, shaking it from side to side. “It took me ages to get the balance right on that sword. Next time there’s a day off, we’re _training_. Think you’ve got what it takes to pass Zack S— Zack’s Class for Shinra Deserters?” he hollers, internally wincing at his slip of the tongue. That is one secret he will have to guard far more closely.

Cloud shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

\--- 

When Zack begins to breach the surface of consciousness, he brings with him only a few remembered impressions: ones of softness, of murmurs, of gently pressing a body against a counter, and, above all, of sunlight streaming through a window. When the initial layer of sleep fades away, Zack finds himself in his favorite place, with his face tucked against the nape of Cloud’s neck. Unwittingly, he smiles into the overheated skin and inhales deeply—and freezes, losing all breath.

His hips are, thankfully, angled toward the ground, but there is no mistaking it: he is semi hard. Taking pains not to wake Cloud, Zack scoots away, putting at least a foot of distance between them. He closes his eyes and concentrates on calming down, on working through the shock. 

It is a most natural thing, and yet, Zack barely recognizes the sensation, cannot for the life of him pinpoint the last time his body acted on its own, let alone indicated interest. Between running for his life and the constant ache of nightmares, thoughts of release had swiftly left his mind until there was nothing left. He suspects that, even if he had tried, his efforts would have been for naught. For a long time, he assumed that Shinra had taken this from him as well, but perhaps it was his own body’s doing, some misguided attempt at self-preservation. 

And now… 

Zack shifts, embarrassed. He blames the dream and its saccharine promises of domestic bliss—no doubt a result of all the talk of last names and marriage and Zack’s own musings. Still, inconvenience aside, it must be yet another sign of healing, an indication of his subconscious feeling safe enough to dip into old patterns. 

As such, Zack forces down the guilt even as he stares at Cloud’s back rising and falling in sleep. _It’s only natural_ , he repeats. In the barracks, back before he had his own quarters, having to ignore others’ morning conditions was almost a daily occurrence. They all followed the unspoken rule to, well, not speak of it. Cloud would have, no doubt, had to deal with the same.

Quietly, he sighs. Just the image of Cloud flinching away from him has him softening, deadened by the disturbing thought of making his friend uneasy—or worse: afraid. With the ebbing tide, he can think more clearly. He tells himself that this changes nothing—after all, he has been able to keep it chaste thus far. If given the option between a smiling Cloud and a nameless body to push onto a bed, he knows which he would choose.

Regardless of the turmoil, Zack cannot banish the relief of having this returned to him, if solely because it was once _his_. Whether the experiments stole it away or he did it to himself, Shinra was still responsible. He will heal out of _spite_ if he has to, will live out his life without Shinra’s shadow casting a pall over his days. Even under the watch of Midgar, Zack can and _will_ thrive.

 _So will Cloud_ , Zack decides, nodding to himself. He, too, will flourish, even if Zack ends up not being there to help him along, whether by Cloud’s choice or another’s fatal strike. 

Beside him, Cloud begins to stir to the tune of dawn, breaths falling out of rhythm. Zack reaches out, imagines tangling his fingers into the soft hairs, and withdraws his hand. Before Cloud can so much as roll over, Zack untucks the blanket and escapes.

It is just another day.

\---

The door to Binh’s office has been left ajar, but Zack knocks anyway, hovering just outside the frame. Binh, elbow-deep in paperwork at his desk, grunts and shoots him a backward glance before doing a double take. 

“Zack!” Grabbing the back of his chair, Binh shifts sideways, granting Zack his full attention. “Hell, why you standing over there? Come over here,” he orders, beckoning even as Zack slips through and closes the door behind him.

Unaccountably anxious, Zack leans against the stack of rice barrels by the wall and pockets his hands, leaving a couple of feet between him and his soon-to-be ex-employer. He cannot say what it is that gnaws at him so; he knows that Binh will not blame him for moving on, but he cannot help but second-guess whether he is making the right decision. At its core, it is…ungrateful. It is an escape from abject poverty without looking back. It is the abandonment of those who helped you when you were young. It is…like a failure to send letters home when you had few words to impart.

 _Ah_. No wonder he fears this conversation. 

“Well?” 

“I—” Zack clears his throat. “I got the job? I start, uh, tomorrow.”

“Attaboy! Knew you could do it!” Binh exclaims and rockets up to grab Zack by the shoulder, shaking him from side to side. Laughing despite himself, Zack latches onto his forearm and squeezes it once before letting go. 

“You’re not disappointed?” Zack asks, throwing his voice to reach a cramped hut in the jungles of Gongaga.

“Nah.” Binh releases him with a friendly push from his shoulder, forcing Zack to adjust his footing to avoid stumbling into the barrels. “I never thought you’d be working here forever. You’re destined for bigger things than this.”

Is he? His younger self had always thought so, but his younger self was also the one who corralled him onto the path that, eventually, led to a slaughterhouse wherein Zack was destined to die in one last heroic stand. Sometimes, he wonders: if he were truly meant to die that day, will his continued presence change anything that would have otherwise occurred in his absence? Only fate could know, but Zack can attest to one difference: Cloud has not been left alone. The thought of him abandoned is akin to the sensation of feet passing over Zack’s grave. 

Regardless, given that Zack survived beyond his intended lifespan, he figures that he can do whatever he likes with Cloud’s gift of life, whether it is to remain a dishwasher or become a brothel bouncer. “Bigger things” have long stopped tempting him. 

“Maybe,” Zack says with a shrug. “Destiny has a funny way of dealing with me. Anyway, priorities change,” he adds quietly, glancing down at his feet.

“They usually do when we have people we want to take care of,” Binh says slowly, to which Zack meets his gaze and nods. Sighing deeply, Binh props his fists against his hips, leaving his arms akimbo. “Zack, are you gonna be alright?” 

“Yeah, of course. The pay will be better and—”

“I don’t mean _that_ ,” Binh interrupts and places both hands on Zack’s shoulders. “Are you gonna be _safe_?”

“Oh,” Zack manages after a stunned moment, unaccountably touched. “ _Yeah_ , it’s safer for us under the Plate. Not so many eyes down there. Thing is, these—” Zack pointedly taps the sunglasses perched on his head. “—only help so much. And I’m too vain to bleach my hair.” 

“Or cut it,” Binh offers, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Zack was joking—well, half joking. 

“Or cut it,” Zack confirms. _That_ , at least, is true, if for entirely different reasons. 

“Well, if you’re ever in the area, drop by. I’ll always be happy to see you.” And then, without any provocation, Binh pulls him into a hug and…fails to immediately release him. Speechless, Zack settles his hands on Binh’s back and slits his eyes as his memory stirs, bringing to mind the sensation of steady arms around him. Of his _dad’s_ arms. 

Zack cannot, for the life of him, remember the last time he actually hugged his dad, but he wonders whether he has finally grown taller than him, or if there remains an inch or two to overcome. He wonders whether he is okay, whether his mom is okay. Cissnei would not lie to him—not about them—but he wishes that he could have seen his parents with his own eyes. Wishes that he could have hugged them.

Angeal, on the other hand, had never been the touchy-feely sort. Whenever Zack tried to cajole him into a hug, he was always reminded of rank and protocol. Selfishly, he wishes that he had not listened. 

Unwilling to surrender to regret, Zack makes himself a promise: he will see, will _hold_ , his parents again. And, if Cloud is amenable, he will bring him along. Gods know that, out of the two of them, he could do with some familial affection.

Heaving a mental sigh, Zack leans out of the embrace and gives a sad smile, a mirror to Binh’s own.

“Thank you, Binh. For everything.”

\---

“Sooo,” Aerith drawls from her place atop the kitchen counter, swinging her feet lazily. “You’re still keeping your feelings a secret. How’s that going?”

Zack sticks his head out from the bottom cabinet to spare her a glance even as his hand finds the handle of a metal pot. Since this is Aerith—Aerith, who did not censure him for said feelings—he does not even dare to pretend at ignorance. “He’s still talking to me and can look me in the eyes.” Zack rises from his crouch and places the pot on the nearest burner. “So…pretty well, I’d say.” 

Yesterday, Zack only just managed to catch Aerith in between his last shifts at Binh’s, relying on her tendency to hang close by during his breaks, and explained his need to borrow her kitchen. As he expected, she professed concern about her mother, Elmyra, ceding ground to Zack. This kitchen is, after all, hers, and Elmyra has no love lost for SOLDIERs. He cannot imagine the lengths Aerith must have gone to convince Elmyra to let him grace just their front stoop. Even as a teen, he had never visited Aerith at home in deference to her mom, but he sorely wishes he had, for every corner of this house exudes an equilibrium of warmth and welcome. Perhaps, one day, he could strive to own a home like this… 

Zack clears his mind as soon as he pictures a ray of sunlight drifting in through a window pane.

“Uh-huh,” Aerith intones, watching as Zack pulls the burlap sack of rice toward himself. He makes certain not to draw attention to the pouch of gil—containing double what Aerith loaned them—sitting beside it, hidden behind a carton of eggs. “And making him a home-cooked meal is going to help keep your secret by…?”

“This was Cloud’s idea, actually.” Ducking his head, Zack grabs the measuring cup and begins to scoop rice, shaking it to level out the grains. It has been years since he stepped foot inside a kitchen with the intent to prepare food, but his parents had been adamant about drilling in the basics. If only he could have carried cooking supplies while on the run. He might have prevented the sunken plane of Cloud’s abdomen, as well as kept himself fighting fit. 

“I’ll make enough for you and your mom, too,” he says, hoping that Aerith will drop the subject.

“Thanks. She’ll probably appreciate it.” Fulfilling Zack’s weary expectations, Aerith tilts her head and catches his gaze with her own shrewd one. “The cooking was his idea?”

“No,” Zack huffs out, staring back at Aerith tiredly. Perched atop the counter like this, she is of a height with him—and has no qualms about using it to her advantage. “Just getting food for each other while the other’s working.”

Aerith is quiet as Zack pours the uncooked rice into the pot before turning to the sink. He remembers his mom teaching him the ratio of rice to water, enunciating “one to two” before repeating herself. At five years old, the numbers sounded more like a dance step than a measuring guide, and, even now, he hums to himself as he fills the cup with water. 

“Zack,” Aerith finally says, interrupting his song. “Your heart’s poking outta your sleeve.”

Zack takes a moment to finish adding the correct amount of water into the pot, chewing over her words. For all his claims of keeping his selfsame heart in check, it is especially obnoxious when it comes to Cloud. “I know,” he mutters and then lids the pot before lighting the burner. “It’s just… I want to do nice things for him. Friends are allowed to do nice things.” 

Sometimes, without allowance to their own safety: just this morning, he went topside to avoid the risk of buying spoiled eggs, a common enough occurrence below the Plate. Shaking his head at himself, Zack wordlessly unpockets Elmyra’s train pass and slides it toward Aerith, who takes it gingerly and starts playing with its edges. Without it, he will have to pay for every ride to the city above―unless they changed that policy while he was absent, in which case, he will not even be able to make such foolhardy trips without identification. 

“I don’t expect him to give me anything in return,” Zack says, continuing from where he left off. “Nothing related to, you know—” He taps the counter, focusing on the grounding vibrations traveling through his nails. “—feelings,” he finishes lamely.

Aerith hums and cranes her head to inspect the rice. Zack peeks at it, reminding himself that he will have to lower the heat as soon as it boils; he burned quite a few batches in his childhood before that step cemented itself in his mind.

“Remember the flower cart you made me?” Aerith asks suddenly.

Wary, Zack stares at her from the corner of his eye. “Aerith…”

“Oh, don’t pitch a fit!” she exclaims, waving her hand in a placatory manner. “Just, remember how bratty I was about it?” When Zack remains awkwardly silent, she amends, “You’re allowed to agree.”

“Y-yeah,” Zack admits, frowning at the fogginess of the memory. His brain must have sorted through it, tossing aside anything less than rose tinted. She had…wanted it to be a different color? Different size? The details are lost to him, but the sting of failure returns easily. “I think you broke my heart a little. All that work…”

“Sorry.” Gently, Aerith taps the side of her foot against his leg. “I was being dumb. And demanding. But inside, inside—” Leaning forward, she presses her hands to her sternum and smiles. “—I was _so very happy_. Only Mom had ever been that nice to me before. And I didn’t want you to know how much it meant to me. It was _embarrassing_.” She huffs, shaking her head. “My point is, everyone reacts differently to someone doing nice things for them. Sometimes, we can’t react at all. Sometimes, we panic and act like idiots. Or act like we don’t care.”

Zack squints, tilts his head, and imagines picking apart her words with a lens and a set of tweezers, cross-checking them with the pieces of his own life. “Am I the idiot?”

Aerith sucks in her lips. “Occasionally.”

Accepting this as truth, Zack turns back to the boiling pot and lowers the temperature before temporarily lifting the lid to release the built-up foam so that it does not bubble over. It will still be a while until the rice is ready, but, loath to waste time, he crouches and begins his search for a frying pan. 

“Speaking of panicking, did you ever see that woman again?” Zack laughs when Aerith kicks his back with her heel. “The one you have a cru-ush on?” he sing-songs, ignoring her warning. 

“Mm-hm,” Aerith hums sweetly, tone clashing with the sharpness of her previous attack. “Once or twice.”

Zack rises, positions his newly found pan on the stove, and props his hands against the counter’s edge, leaning forward. “Talk to her?”

“No,” Aerith admits, “but I know where she works: that bar over in Sector 7.”

“A bar?” Shaking his head, Zack lets a little more steam escape the pot. Perhaps he should not tease Aerith—they both know that, statistically, they are in dire straits—but it stands to reason that they should enjoy their banter while any potential heartbreak remains in the distance. “You know that’s the easiest place to talk to people, right?”

“Not if she’s _working_ , Zack.”

“Excuses, excuses…” he mutters, clucking to himself as he reaches for the carton of eggs. “You’re worse than I am.”

At that, Aerith shoots him a profoundly incredulous look, which, hey, _fair_. 

\---

Mid step, Zack is careful to keep the borrowed container between his hands level as he twists his wrist to check the time. The green numbers show that he is just a couple of minutes shy of the start of Cloud’s lunch break. Smiling to himself, he refocuses on picking his way to the general store. 

The wristwatch itself had been Cloud’s idea: as soon as they began sorting through the logistics of eating meals together, it became abundantly clear that whichever one was not at work would not know when the other would be free—unless he were to linger in the Wall Market for hours on end, that is. And so, they decided to share the watch, with Zack wearing it in the morning and passing it over to Cloud at the end of lunch.

Half expecting to be assailed by toothpaste tubes, Zack warily opens the door to the general store and only pokes his head inside, hoping to avoid catching Hanako’s attention. Cloud, luckily, is not far away; broom in hand, he lifts one finger and then shoos him away with a waving hand. Hanako, sitting before the register with the grace of a queen atop her throne, does not even spare Zack a glance, so he risks an acknowledging salute before darting back outside.

Unsurprisingly, there are no benches to be found nearby, so Zack makes his way over to some abandoned scrap metal, aiming for the section that appears capable of holding the weight of two people. Placing a palm against the metal, he exerts pressure in increments, testing its strength. When he is satisfied that it will not break, Zack sits down, waiting. He glances down at the container in his lap.

Zack is not _nervous_ , per se. He understands that his cooking is nothing to write home about, so he does not expect to impress anyone, let alone Cloud, with his food. Still… He recognizes the inherent intimacy of the offering, this act of placing one’s soul on a plate and extending it for inspection. Anyone else would think twice before baring themselves in such a way, especially if they have few kitchen skills to speak of. Well, even if it ends up tasting terrible, there is the hope that Cloud will at least appreciate it as a well-intentioned gesture. 

_Friends are allowed to do nice things._

Zack lifts his head at the sound of a door opening and grins when Cloud escapes the store with a harried look upon his face. Pitching his voice low, Zack calls, “That bad, huh?”

“No, it’s fine,” Cloud says as he reaches Zack. He plops down beside him, lets out a breath, and gives Zack the side-eye. “If you could stand all day, washing dishes, then I can talk to customers.”

Zack shrugs, not seeing how this should be reason enough for Cloud to suffer at his workplace. “It was repetitive, but it was busy enough that it didn’t get too boring. Just like training drills. Here—” Zack holds out the container and gingerly deposits it into Cloud’s waiting hands. “Open it,” he adds, not wanting to draw out the process.

Cloud shoots him a calculating look before he lowers his head and starts to pick at the edge of the lid, keeping the container stable so as to avoid spilling anything. The lid comes off with a quiet pop but remains in place, veiling the contents. When Cloud finally peels it back, he lets out a surprised laugh.

“Is that—? Is that a chocobo?”

“Well…” Zack leans over Cloud’s shoulder. Truth be told, the omelette blob lying on top of a backdrop of rice and veggies only vaguely resembles the bird in question. If not for the peppercorn eye and the slices of carrot masquerading as a beak and feet, the artistic concept would be lost. Even now, Zack wholly expects Cloud to humor him, but he cannot help the twinge of pride at him managing to recognize it from the onset.

“It’s _meant_ to be a chocobo,” Zack allows, chuckling to himself. “I tried my best.” He momentarily turns away to rummage in his satchel for spoons; when he shifts back, he finds the softest smile lingering on Cloud’s face. Zack freezes like a lone hiker coming upon a deer, unwilling to spook it.

“You made this?” Cloud asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Using Aerith’s kitchen.” Zack watches him cautiously, primed to catch any indication of suspicion or overthinking. There…is none to speak of. Cloud simply looks pleased, possibly even _happy_. Relaxing, Zack gently nudges Cloud’s shoulder and warns, “It’s probably not that great. My parents taught me the basics, but they stopped there.” Keeping one for himself, Zack passes Cloud a spoon.

After casting one last look at the omelette, Cloud turns his smile onto Zack, nearly blinding the latter. “I bet it tastes as good as it looks.”

“Oh, _gods_ , don’t say _that_ ,” Zack protests and stares into the container, pulling an exaggerated look of horror.

Chuckling quietly, Cloud nudges Zack’s shoulder and places the container atop their thighs, balancing it across the small gap between them. They tuck in, hunched over, ignoring the ephemeral glances of any passersby. Save for a little murmur of “s’good” from Cloud, they remain silent throughout most of the meal, taking turns scooping spoonfuls, hands cupped to catch any spillage.

Considering that he has not cooked in years, Zack is pleasantly surprised that the food manages to make it past edible; “good” might be too kind, but it is decent for a first attempt. It is not at all on par with Cloud’s mom’s cooking however. He distinctly remembers Cloud subtly boasting it while inviting him to dinner, all in an email because he had been too timid to ask outright. Zack did most of the talking that evening, answering Cloud’s mom’s questions with rambling anecdotes, glossing over unpleasant missions by focusing on his interactions with his friend.

The Zack sitting at the Strifes’ dining table had not known that he would fall in love, but he wonders whether Cloud’s mom had. The buried memory returns to him in a wave, carried in by the tide: a moment, just him and her, Cloud rifling through his old things in the adjacent room. She had beckoned him lower and whispered.

_Take care of him, won’t you?_

Even then, even as the words flew over his head, Zack did not hesitate before promising. Now, he understands what lay in between the pause. Her approval of their relationship—imagined or otherwise—tears him in two. One half wishes to preen, the other weep. Zack chooses to do neither, for neither will change what followed.

Nibelheim is a font of regret, but at least they had that one evening together, three laughs drifting into the night. She died knowing that Cloud would not be alone, clutching onto that peace of mind until the end. It is a small consolation in the midst of everything that happened that fateful night. 

“I used to cook with my mom, too,” Cloud says suddenly as they are picking away at the remaining rice. “I’d wanted to help her with dinner, that day you met her. She told me to rest.”

Perhaps it should strike him as strange that both he and Cloud ended up on the same wavelength, but Zack accepts it without pause. It seems only natural that a home-cooked meal would evoke memories of, well, home. “Mm, I still remember that stew. Even the SOLDIER rations were only half as good.”

Cloud smiles at the compliment, not taking his eyes off their meal. “I bet I could recreate it. Do you think Aerith would let me borrow her kitchen after work?”

Wincing, Zack shakes his head, finally drawing Cloud’s attention away from the rice. “Aerith barely managed to convince her mom to let me borrow it this time. Elmyra doesn’t like anything related to Shinra. Not that we are, but…”

Given Cloud’s frown, Zack fully expects him to take offense at being associated with their would-be murderers, so when Cloud asks, “How am I supposed to cook dinner, then?” he is floored, warming at the notion.

“I, uh,” Zack stammers, “guess you could wait a few days and see if she’ll let you borrow it then. But don’t worry about cooking tonight. I just thought it would be nice, every once in a while.”

“It is nice,” Cloud asserts, tapping his spoon against the bottom of the container in a particularly threatening fashion. “I’m cooking next, okay? Don’t steal my turn.”

Grinning, Zack raises his hands in surrender, both charmed at Cloud’s frustration and excited at the future prospect of stew. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” Cloud says with a tight nod. He looks away, earring glinting as it catches the garish lights of the Wall Market, and presses more fully against Zack’s upper arm. “Thanks for this.” 

“You’re welcome,” Zack sing-songs and raises a hand to ruffle the hairs at the back of Cloud’s head, subtly breaking away from his body heat. “I had to show off at least once before you embarrassed me with your cooking.”

“Yeah, I’ll wipe the floor with you,” Cloud deadpans.

When Cloud tilts his head back ever so slightly into his waiting hand, Zack knows not to read into it. A twinge of annoyance, a stiff neck, a mere twitch—any of these could explain the movement. Cloud ducks back down not moments later.

\---

It is encroaching upon midnight when Zack eases open the door to the church and steps inside. He waits a moment, ears attuned, but the nave remains silent, so he carefully closes the door and walks down the aisle toward the lantern perched at the end of their pew. As soon as the leftmost corner comes into view, Zack stops and just…takes a second to appreciate the sight.

Cloud, completely out for the count, lies on his side on the bed, masked in a pattern of dim light and heavy shadow. His face carries the brunt of the illumination, but he appears unbothered by it, for his breaths are steady and calm. Zack looks away. He gathers his sleeping clothes, grabs the lantern, and heads into the washroom. 

Zack is not as exhausted as he would have expected after his shift―and definitely not as worn down as Cloud has been after returning from his own job. But, maybe it should not come as a surprise. After all, speaking, interacting, socializing…all of these come naturally to him―they had just no longer seemed so important out in the wilderness. Even now, he knows that he could live on Cloud and Aerith’s sole company, but perhaps this―interacting with more than just two or three people―is better for him in the long run. 

_Small steps_ , Zack reminds himself, Aerith’s words from their first day back in Midgar echoing in tandem.

Resurfacing from his thoughts, Zack stoppers the flow of water and, in lieu of reaching for the towel, pulls off his shirt, letting the fabric make a vague attempt at drying his face. He tosses it on the used pile and dons his tank top, making a mental note to sort out laundry while Cloud is at work tomorrow, potentially as early as possible. He should, after all, adapt to his new schedule, even if not a hint of sleep tugs at his eyelids. Given the option to either sit around waiting or lie in bed waiting, Zack deliberates for only a second before flicking off the lantern.

Relying half on sight and half on memory, Zack picks his way back to the doorway and through the nave, circling the flower patch to avoid incurring Aerith’s wrath. When he reaches the side of the bed, Cloud is showing signs of waking, stirring after Zack knocks his foot against what, based on its sharp corner, appears to be a book. 

“Zack?” he murmurs, barely awake.

“Yeah, it’s me, sunshine,” Zack confirms with a wince, purposely using the nickname so that Cloud has no reason to suspect him a stranger. He carefully steps over him, raises the blanket, and lies down on his back, resting his head on the edge of the pillow to ensure that Cloud has enough personal space. 

Cloud slurs something that Zack, through context clues, thankfully manages to translate. 

Glancing over with fondness, Zack says, “Work was good. Go back to sleep. I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” and settles in for at least a half hour of urging his brain to switch off. 

Then, because the universe is both kind and, in all meanings of the word, a trickster, Cloud rolls over and folds into Zack with nary a hitch, as though they had always lain in this way. His hand presses against Zack’s side, trapping him, while Zack’s arms, ever the betrayers, instinctively loop around his waist, appreciating the welcome home. 

“Tried t’ stay up,” Cloud whispers before murmuring absently and dropping back into unconsciousness. 

“It’s okay,” Zack whispers even though Cloud is not awake to hear the words, each syllable timorous and trembling. His hand is steady when it buries itself into blond hairs, but only just. Cloud, sleepily registering the pressure, tilts his head closer and presses his arm more firmly to Zack’s torso. 

Zack stares up at the wooden sky and, for the first time ever, _wonders_. 

And remains wondering, prohibiting any meandrous notions to grow into fully fledged thoughts. Exactly one hour and twenty-two minutes later, he falls asleep to the dream-addled sight of Cloud placing a glove against his lips and jerking away when it leaves them bloody.

\---

Days pass with the ease of routine, during which Zack inspects his wonderings from a distance, too cowardly to pick them up and run his fingers over their jagged and foreign planes. Ultimately, he is left shaken, unsure of what to think. 

He tucks them away, half convinced that he simply caught Cloud in a vulnerable moment. It would not be so out of character, he tells himself, not with how often Zack steals little pieces of affection here and there, conditioning them both to expect a friend within reach, one amenable to sating the longing for human contact. 

Feeling eyes on him, Zack forces himself to look away from the kitchen counter—and the line of Cloud’s back—and glances at Aerith, who sits beside him at her dinner table. Much to his dismay, she is watching him with a knowing grin, chin cradled in her palms: a spectator to all his foibles. He longs to ask her opinion, but she is biased and likely to overlook misgivings in order to edge him toward what she thinks will cultivate happiness. She is hardly an objective party. No, he will keep the drowsy memory to himself, leaving it unmarked and uncategorized. 

Zack sticks his tongue out at her—because he is Zack—and Aerith mirrors the gesture—because she is not unwilling to stoop to his level. Satisfied, he leans his head against a propped-up arm and turns back to observe the culinary proceedings. 

He does not blame Elmyra for hovering, not when Cloud, from the perspective of an outsider, must still look so waifish. Despite their efforts to recover from starvation, he _still_ inspires the desire to stuff him full of food and encourage him to rest. Zack can relate. Moreover, Cloud is not the SOLDIER Elmyra has grown to be wary of. He did not, after all, consent to be walking around with Shinra’s brand upon his eyes.

It was this detail that softened Elmyra into inviting them to dinner, or so Aerith explained to Zack in confidence. Zack understood it to mean that her sympathy was focused solely on Cloud, only extending to him out of courtesy. Regardless, Elmyra must not have expected Cloud to use this as an opportunity to commandeer her kitchen. As she steadily stirs the pot on the stove, she occasionally flicks her gaze at him bent over the chopping board, a hint of concern in the line between her brows. 

“This is entertaining to watch. I’m glad I gave up training for this,” Zack whispers out of the corner of his mouth. As much as he would have enjoyed to fulfill his promise of using their next joint day off to teach Cloud sword techniques, this _is_ a singular sight.

“I think Mom wants to hug him,” Aerith whispers back, finally breaking her stare to look at them.

“Bet you five gil that Cloud will wriggle out of it if she does.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Aerith muses, tilting her head. “He’ll just suffer through it. Unless, of course—” She turns back, raising a brow. “—you know that and just want to give me more money.” 

“Speaking of, what did you do with that gil I smuggled in?” Zack asks cheerily, not bothering to hide his subterfuge in the face of Aerith’s cunning.

“Bought the food Cloud’s currently cooking with!” Aerith replies, just as cheery.

“Fantastic.”

Groaning, Zack crosses his arms, leans back in the chair, and resigns himself to battling a never-ending war of kindness against Aerith. In that moment, Cloud seems to finally take pity on Elmyra. He flicks the remaining scraps on the cutting board into the pot, steals the stirring spoon before setting it aside, and lowers the heat.

“That needs to simmer for a while,” he says, reading his watch as he leaves the counter to join the others, Elmyra trailing after. When Cloud notices that everyone’s eyes are on him, he pointedly steps away and leans against the wall, glaring at the floor.

In the ensuing silence, Zack, Cloud, and Aerith all visibly share the same thought at the same time: even though they are technically adults, they do not want to remain here and make adult conversation with an _actual_ adult. Aerith, because this is her home, is the first to break, much to Zack’s relief.

“Great! Mom, we’ll all be upstairs!” she exclaims, jolting upright, and leans over to grab Cloud’s wrist before hauling him toward and up the stairs. Zack dutifully follows, pushing lightly on Cloud’s shoulders when he glances back in disbelief. Upstairs, Aerith leads their three-car train to the only room with its door ajar. Kicking it open all the way, she lets go of Cloud and then plops down on what must be her bed. 

Zack takes a second to appreciate the modest but comfortable bedroom before skirting Cloud to claim the chair by the desk. He sits astride it and crosses his forearms against its back, leaning his chin atop them. Unsurprisingly, Cloud wavers in the doorway, shuffling from side to side until Aerith—bless her—beckons him over to sit beside her.

“Was that rude just now?” Zack muses as Cloud perches on the edge of the bed, keeping his sock-clad feet on the floor whereas Aerith has tucked hers underneath herself. “Escaping like that?”

Aerith shakes her head, smiling. “Mom didn’t know how to deal with us either. Let’s save our energy for dinner.”

“If I did my job right,” Cloud comments lowly, “we’ll be too busy eating to talk.”

Both Zack and Aerith erupt into giggles, the former remembering how their own dinner back in Nibelheim was anything but silent, perhaps not for lack of trying on the Strifes’ part. “Understood.” Zack nods, mirroring Cloud’s nascent smile. “When in doubt, stuff your face.” 

“Oh!” Aerith exclaims, tapping her hand against her knee rapidly. “Zack! I keep meaning to ask how your new job’s going.”

Grinning, Zack lifts his chin from his arms. “It’s great. My coworkers are nice, and the clients stay in line. I haven’t even needed to throw anyone out yet! I bet I scare off all the troublemakers,” he jokes, lightly flexing his biceps to emphasize his point. 

Humming, Aerith tilts her head one way before angling it toward Cloud, who immediately meets her gaze. “Is ‘scary’ the word you’d use?” she wonders. Cloud looks thoughtful. 

Since Zack returned to Midgar, Aerith has led him down various winding routes using just her words, so he is justifiably wary when he offers, “Intimidating?”

“Not quite what I meant. I’m thinking ‘puppyish.’ Is that a word?” The last is directed at Cloud, much to Zack’s horror. 

“If it isn’t, it is now,” he replies, tone laden with the gravity of a sage scouring the recesses of a tome. 

“Perfect!” Aerith trills, pointedly ignoring Zack’s gaping mouth. Angeal had been calling Zack a puppy behind his back for years, but this is on another level of embarrassing. “The clients take one look at you and feel bad about even _considering_ giving you a hard time, so they behave themselves.”

“You’re giving me a hard time now!” Zack protests, raising his palms in exasperation. He does not appreciate being ganged up on, so there is only one thing for it: he must steal their ammunition and offer an enticing distraction. “Hey, speaking of, have you seen Cloud at work? He has an apron and everything! It’s _adorable_.” He varnishes the final word with a heavy coat of teasing, wielding the truth like a blade. Predictably, Cloud glares back at him.

“I _have_ seen Cloud.” Aerith raises a hand to her face, blocking Cloud’s view of her mouth. “All the customers give him a wide berth. Because he _is_ scary.” 

Well, at least Cloud’s glare lifts at that, morphing into an expression of pride. Even so, Zack squints at Aerith’s words, comparing them to what he knows of his friend. So-called “scary” is hardly applicable. Fierce, perhaps. Determined, if not stubborn. Timid. _Lovely_ , because that is where Zack’s brain always takes him. 

“Just accept it, Zack,” Aerith says sweetly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “Everyone loves you.”

Cloud glances down at his watch. “I’m gonna go check on the stew,” he announces before promptly standing up and heading out. 

Zack waits until Cloud’s head bobs out of sight below the railing before he pitches forward and hisses, “Aerith, if I ever meet your crush, I’m going to tell her terrible things about you.”

“Good luck thinking of anything!” 

\---

“There! That’s the problem!” Zack hollers, pointing excitedly. “You’re leaning forward too much when you swing. You can’t recover as quickly if you do that.”

Cloud springs back out of the lunge, fast, but not as fast as Zack knows he can be. Eyes wide, he lowers the Buster Sword and looks over to where Zack has situated himself in the corner of the church’s back room. “I hadn’t noticed.” He flips the weapon within his grip so that its lower edge alternates: sharp, blunt, sharp. “It doesn’t feel heavy, but my brain keeps thinking it should be.”

Zack smiles wryly, remembering when he himself was still getting the hang of Mako enhancements. At least he had Angeal around to point him in the right direction; Cloud will just have to make do with Zack’s tutelage. “You get used to it. Try to put more strength into keeping your back straighter when you swing—the sword will do the rest.” Zack leans back against a barrel, pressing his palms against its lip. “Here, try again.”

After visibly composing himself, Cloud falls back into a ready stance, hops forward, and swings. His back is, admittedly, straighter, but the sword nearly flies out of his hands—Zack can practically taste Cloud’s panic as he tightens his hold on the weapon before it can rocket away. 

Zack covers his mouth as he sputters into a laugh, unable to swallow it down. “Okay, nice job on the back, but don’t let your sword do _all_ the work.”

Red-faced, Cloud huffs out a breath as he fixes his footing. “Wait, I can do this.”

“I know you can,” Zack answers quietly, not sure whether Cloud hears him. He settles back to watch as Cloud continues the set of drills, adjusting his technique as he goes. At times, his movements are raw, not wholly precise, but Zack can already see improvement. Mako-enhanced or otherwise, Cloud was made for this.

Zack flushes, unable to look away. He can only imagine his expression. Given that Arla, the Honey Bee’s only female bouncer, teased him for his “heart eyes”—sunglasses notwithstanding—after Zack returned from his dinner break the other night, it must be _ruinous_. He quickly averts his eyes, gazing upward.

Dust motes drift down from the rafters, caught in rays of sunshine. If Zack squints, he can pretend that he can see the blue of the sky behind the blinding light. It has only been a few weeks since he retreated to the relative security of the slums, but the loss of the sky’s expanse already pulls at him. He misses it. 

Sighing, he focuses back on Cloud, reminding himself that he is meant to be watching his form for mistakes. As if on cue, Cloud overreaches once again, the curve of his back evident. Well, Zack thinks with a smile, at least he can make mistakes in _safety_. The back room, not good for much else, provides an adequate practice space. 

Balance, technique, footwork: these are all things that can be taught, can be learned, but the Buster Sword is not so versatile. If you are not fit to wield it, it will tell you so. It is special. Zack has only ever associated it with Angeal—not ever with himself, always feeling like he had to prove himself to be worthy of it—but Cloud… Cloud is special, too. The sword suits him. He will learn to wield it as well as Zack can—better, even.

“I wonder if a different weapon would have worked better against Sephiroth,” Cloud says suddenly, and, just as suddenly, Zack is drop-kicked into a memory. He is lying on cold metal, the stair’s edge digging into his ribs, and he wants to touch Cloud’s face. Through some miracle, Cloud is still breathing, but he is at death’s door.

When Zack speaks, his voice is steady. “Like what?”

“I dunno.” Glaring, Cloud drops one hand from the sword and lowers the weapon, letting it hover at his side. “Maybe a spear or something. A _long_ spear.”

Wary of Cloud’s expression, Zack pushes away from the barrel and approaches. He stops just out of reach. In his double vision, Cloud is stumbling out to the landing, hand at his torso. He is falling down the stairs, head lolling with every step. His body lands just out of Zack’s reach. 

Then, the memory reverses. 

“Cloud… I just realized something. I never asked how you defeated Sephiroth.” 

Cloud briefly flicks his eyes up at Zack. “I remember it, but I don’t trust the memory.”

“Why?” Zack asks, the word reverberating throughout the past. If he were to say it every time the situation warranted it, it would surrender to semantic satiation.

Cloud shakes his head, mouth screwed up in anger, eyes fixed on the sword. Zack longs to hold him. “It just can’t be real.”

Letting out a quiet breath, Zack observes Cloud, gauging whether this is one of those times when poking would incur more damage than stepping back would. If Zack drops the subject, they will continue to train, and Cloud, distracted, will make mistakes, only adding to his frustration. No, they need to address this now.

Zack steps forward, reaches out, and cradles Cloud’s shoulder in his palm, rocking it gently. “Please tell me?”

Cloud turns his head, seemingly focusing on the bend of Zack’s outstretched arm. His voice, when he speaks, drifts in as though he is broadcasting from the other side of a dream. “In the memory, I’m on the ground when he stabs me. The sword goes through all the way.” Cloud places a hand on his abdomen. Zack’s hand, hanging out of sight, twitches.

“Sephiroth lifts his sword with me still on it, and I can’t feel the ground. I…grab the sword and pull myself forward until I can. Feel the ground. Sephiroth is still holding onto the sword, so I—” Cloud shakes his head. “—lift him and throw him off. He falls into the reactor. The sword goes with him. That’s where it ends.”

“Cloud, are you saying…” Zack’s mouth moves of its own accord, opening and closing. “Sephiroth stabbed you and you just…stabbed yourself more?” 

Side-eyeing him, Cloud shrugs, seemingly at a loss. “Essentially.”

Zack stares. Of course he did. Cloud, already suffering a fatal wound, saw a monster and decided to take it down with him. All this time, Zack has been focused on protecting him from external forces; to think that the one thing that would have guaranteed Cloud’s death—if not for Shinra’s intervention—was his own recklessness. 

Well, they appear to have that trait in common. The thought leaves an ominous trail in its wake.

“But I don’t think it happened,” Cloud mutters, eyes shuttering, head drooping. “I was never that strong.”

 _No_ , Zack thinks, smiling sadly, _but your love was_. 

In the memory, the town of Nibelheim is burning. Cloud’s mom is already gone. Tifa is lying on the floor, crumpled and dying. The culprit waits at the top of the stairs. The Buster Sword is within Cloud’s reach. 

In another time, Zack is standing between an army and the boy he loves, although he does not know it yet. 

“Love can give us the strength we need to keep fighting.” Zack smiles gently when Cloud glances up, his eyes wide. “Terrible things happened that night to people you love.”

Cloud shakes his head, barely turning his neck with how rapid the little movements are. “But it doesn’t make any sense.”

Quietly, Zack sighs and looks down. If there is no speaking to Cloud’s heart, then perhaps he can reach his brain and its network of nerves. With his free hand, Zack touches the back of Cloud’s own where it rests on his abdomen. It is clad in Zack’s glove, what with Cloud’s bloody pair gathering dust in the wastelands. Cloud stills at the touch. He lowers his head. 

“Do you remember this pain?” Zack asks, pressing lightly against the leather.

After a moment, Cloud nods.

“Then,” Zack says, heart breaking, “I believe you.” He drops his hand, and Cloud mirrors him, limb dangling like a puppet’s. “However it happened, however you did it—” Zack bites his lip. He cannot parse his emotions, save for this one: “Cloud, I’m just happy you came out of it alive.”

Zack does not know if he twitches first and Cloud responds, or vice versa. Ultimately, they move as one, stepping forward and curling into each other. Cloud tucks his face into Zack’s neck, and Zack holds him there with a strong hand, fingers curled into soft hairs. A hand digs into the back of his shirt, while the ghost of another hovers by their sides, burdened by the weight of a sword. 

“If you couldn’t kill him,” Cloud whispers, “then how could I have?”

“Because you’re you,” Zack answers, speaking into Cloud’s ear. And then, because the chains across Zack’s heart have cracked from the rust of disuse, he adds, “I wish you’d see yourself the way I see you.”

“How do you see me?” Cloud asks quietly.

_As the sun, and me, the idiot, looking directly at it._

When the silence is beginning to ripen toward discomfort, Zack finally replies, “Twice as stubborn as you are tall.” 

“You’re an asshole,” Cloud grumbles, but he does not punch Zack for the dig at his height, nor does he push him away. And so, Zack does it for him, stepping back and out of his embrace. 

“And also your trainer. Come on—” Zack points at the Buster Sword, unable to meet Cloud’s eyes. “—let’s get another few reps in.”

As soon as Zack turns away to retreat to his corner, he drops his mask for just a moment, allowing his emotions, wandering and anguished and confused, free rein. He cannot wipe his imagination of the vision of Cloud willfully impaling himself, staring death in the face. It only confirms what he knew all along: _Cloud is special_. Unsurprisingly, the words do nothing to ease the horror. 

Zack smiles, turns around, and leans back against the barrel.

\---

The numbers glowing on Thomas’s watch indicate that Cloud is precisely eleven minutes late. Zack bites his lip and follows the digits with his eyes as Thomas lowers his wrist. Haltingly, he turns back out to the Honey Bee’s courtyard, pretending to watch for clients when, really, there is only one person who could draw his attention.

“Relax, kid,” Thomas says. “We aren’t so strict about the breaks. You’ll get your full thirty even if it starts later than usual.”

“That’s not it. It’s that Cloud isn’t usually late. Maybe—” Zack cuts himself off as a pair of men approach and automatically requests their passes. _Maybe he’s helping Hanako_ , he thinks as he checks the back of the cards. Cloud’s shift does not extend to the end of the store’s business hours, as Hanako could not afford to pay him overtime, but perhaps she required extra help this one evening. 

“He gets you two dinner, yeah?” Thomas drawls as soon as the clients have disappeared behind the door. “He’s probably just stuck in line somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Zack says and then repeats it, nodding decidedly. That must be it. 

Thomas scoffs and shakes his head. “ _Eleven minutes_ ,” he mutters even though, Zack calculates, it must be twelve now. “You’re worse than Verre.” 

Zack forces himself not to take offense, not when Thomas does not know the particulars of their circumstances. He could delineate a whole network of reasons why “eleven minutes” is cause for alarm. However, although both Thomas and Verre have shown that they can be trusted, Zack is no longer so naive as to lay out their entire lives at the feet of near strangers. 

“I’m—” Zack casts about for an excuse, wondering what Zack Strife would do in this situation. “I miss him,” he finally says and promptly winces when Thomas breaks off into hearty laughter.

“Verre mentioned you’re married, but I didn’t believe it until now.” Thomas jovially smacks his palm against Zack’s shoulder, seemingly unperturbed by the latter’s affronted expression.

“Why not?” Zack huffs out. He would make a _great_ husband, as would Cloud, for that matter. Determined to defend them, he does not even bother to correct Thomas; the rumor mill must have been displeased by his initial answer of “pretty much married” and dusted off those extra modifiers. “Why wouldn’t I want to marry him? He’s wonderful.”

Crossing his arms, Thomas chuckles. “Not exactly what I meant. It’s just that people your age tend to date around more. Y’know, get a better idea of what you’d want in a relationship. If you started dating him young, how do you know he’ll still be right for you as you grow up?”

Zack glares at the bouncer before smoothing out his expression, assuring himself that Thomas is not attempting to sabotage his relationship. Then, flushing, Zack remembers that he is neither married to nor dating Cloud, nor was he as a teen—instead, he was dating Aerith. Young, Zack thought that he had finally met his soulmate. Grown-up, Zack knows that he had not. 

Thomas, in other words, is absolutely right.

Relaxing, Zack shrugs. “I know what I want. Besides, no one could understand me like he does.”

“Same life experience?” Thomas offers, wiping the amusement from his face as he spots another set of clients.

Zack thinks of Cloud’s fingers spread against Mako-tinged glass, of his head tucked against Zack’s neck to escape the wind, of his silhouette blurring as Zack’s eyes darkened. “Something like that.”

When twenty more minutes come and go with no sign of Cloud, Zack spares Thomas a plaintive look, but he remains vigilant, keeping a weather eye on the horizon. When another ten minutes pass, strained and silent, Thomas lets loose a capitulating sigh and pushes at Zack’s shoulder. 

“You’re giving me a headache with how loud you’re thinking. Go on—go check on him.”

“Thanks,” Zack breathes out before jogging away, nearly barreling into an approaching client. As he calls back an apology, he imagines that Thomas must sigh at his retreating back, but he has only care enough to give it a moment’s worth of thought.

It is not far to Hanako’s store, but the distance grows as worry, trickling in like tar, begins to press upon Zack’s sternum. He remains alert, tracking any distant passersby with yellow hair as he runs past. By the time he arrives at the store, Zack is so keyed up that he slams open the door. Hanako, standing by the shelves, startles and nearly drops a box of wares, but as soon as she locks eyes with Zack’s, she scowls.

“Sorry about that.” Zack closes the door behind him, apologetically pats the wood for good measure, and darts his gaze around the storefront. When that yields no Cloud, he cranes his head toward the back room’s entrance, hopeful. “Sorry, I know Cloud doesn’t work this late, but is he still here?” 

Scoffing, Hanako drops the box on top of a nearby step stool and places her hands on her hips. “No, he doesn’t work this late. And he doesn’t work until the end of his shift either, apparently.” 

Zack freezes. “He what?”

“He walked out!” Hanako cries out, tossing her hands up in exasperation. “Threw off his apron and left without a word! With almost an hour still on the clock! Do you know how many employees I’ve lost over the years?” Swiftly turning away, she reaches for the box and continues restocking, placing down each item with a definitive thunk. “I’m so sick of this bullshit.”

“Sorry, he—” Zack shakes his head, slow to comprehend. “He _walked out_? Cloud wouldn’t just walk out.” 

“Well, he did.” Hanako glares over her shoulder. “And I recommend that you do the same.”

Knowing a threat when he hears one, Zack hurriedly backs away and grabs the door handle. He has one foot outside when Hanako adds, “When you find him, tell him to not bother coming back.”

Swallowing, Zack nods and escapes, making certain not to slam the door. He stops just outside the store’s entryway and waits for his mind to catch up. The second it does, he runs. 

Cloud, when Zack saw him at lunch, was perfectly fine. Tired, but fine—he had not mentioned anything except routine complaints, so the theory that he snapped and walked out on his job does not withstand scrutiny. Even upset, he would have still beelined to Zack—right?

On second thought, he hopes that Cloud did choose to abandon him, for the alternative, steadily creeping toward reality, is far worse: Cloud walked out unknowingly, lost in time. 

Zack overtakes a group of men strolling up the path to the Honey Bee, unwilling to wait until Thomas sorts through their passes to speak to him. Luckily, there is no line when Zack enters the courtyard, and the bouncer immediately waves him over, frowning at whatever emotion must be bleeding past Zack’s sunglasses.

“I’m sorry to do this to you,” Zack blurts as soon as Thomas is within earshot, “but I need to leave my shift.”

“Shit, what’s wrong? Your boy okay?”

“I don’t know,” Zack answers, a note of panic dipping into his tone and dyeing the whole thing red. “I don’t know where he is. I need to find him. He has this thing where—” Zack clenches his hand, struggling to form words. “It’s like he sleepwalks. He’s not lucid.”

“Shit, yeah, fucking _go_ ,” Thomas urges, eyes wide. “We’ll be fine here. I’ll call Arla.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Zack says before he _fucking goes_. 

\---

Cloud is not at the church: he is not in the nave, the washroom, the back room, behind a pew, in a barrel, above the rafters, or huddled in a corner. Everything else, anything of value—sword, armor, gil—remains untouched and hidden away. Nothing is out of place except a pair of sunglasses. Miraculously intact, they rest by a pile of books, convalescing after having been flung there in a fit of panic.

Zack breathes out haltingly, face hidden in his hands, mind empty. He lowers his hands. He looks down at the lantern doing its paltry best to fill the cavernous chamber with light. The world is slow around him.

Then, Zack cannot move quickly enough. He drops to his knees, finds an old receipt, scribbles out a message— _Went to look for you. Stay put ~~if~~ when you come home._—and leaves it beside the lantern. He barrels down the aisle, jerks open the semi-ajar door—and knocks Aerith over, catching her by the torso before she can hit the ground shrieking.

“Sorry, sorry!” Zack rights her, squeezing her shoulders in apology. He needs to _move_ , his brain tells him, but… “Aerith, can you please stay here? I need to look for Cloud.”

“ _Look_ for him?” Aerith exclaims, raising a hand to her mouth as Zack releases and sidesteps her. “He’s missing? Can I help look?”

“He walked out on Hanako. I think he lost time,” Zack explains impatiently, walking backward into the shadows of the slums. “And no, please, just, stay in case he comes back?”

“But I—” she starts, but he is already sprinting away. “Zack, he’ll be okay!” 

Zack barely hears her, the pounding of his heart blocking out her words. Sector 5 first, he decides, with all its nooks and crannies where monsters can fall upon an unsuspecting, incognizant passerby in sheer moments. He searches, ducking through the heaps of debris with uncanny speed. Clawed creatures scurry away from him, scenting a predator prepared to dole out death to whatever crosses its path. 

When he finds neither hair nor hide of Cloud— _A finger here, a rib there. A calf._ —Zack lets out a little sigh of relief and swerves toward civilization. The rest of Sector 5, however, yields nothing but frustration. Not a soul walks its makeshift streets, let alone a dazed blond. Everyone remains inside, too afeared to leave the relative safety of their homes, so there is no one to interrogate. Zack does not waste time lingering here—he moves on to Sector 6. 

Zack realizes with a stab of hindsight that he should have looked through the Wall Market first. According to Hanako, Cloud disappeared over two hours ago, but, if anyone encountered him then, they would be long gone by now. Determined, he stops a few ambling pedestrians anyway and asks if they have seen an especially spiky-haired blond. One after another, they shake their heads and continue on their way. Zack nearly decks a man who asks if Cloud owes him “money or something,” but he refrains, if only because he cannot afford to be delayed.

Desperate, Zack ducks his head into a few shops, but no one has seen Cloud. Even the diner’s server, who knows the blond on sight—Cloud having bought dinner there often enough—confirms that he did not come in today. When Zack has finished combing through the market to no avail, he rushes toward Sector 7—the only other place Cloud has visited—on the basis that his subconscious would only take him somewhere familiar. 

It is at the playground by Sector 7’s gates that Zack is granted a glimmer of hope. A woman, tiredly watching two boys chase each other across the grounds, nods when Zack offers Cloud’s description. It was over an hour ago, she says, but he passed by. He didn’t look well, she adds. 

After thanking her, Zack speeds off in the direction she indicated, not stopping until he reaches a collected mass of buildings. Just like in Sector 5, it is quiet here, but there are neon signs in the distance, bright and beckoning. He has half a mind to investigate them when he catches a familiar rumbling. The train. Zack runs toward the sound, the station being the only other landmark Cloud might have recognized in his hazy state. 

When he reaches the station, the train is long gone, having spewed out a few exhausted and terribly unfamiliar passengers. One man shakes his head when Zack questions him, but the rest do not even acknowledge him, trudging away toward the shantytown.

Zack breathes. The platform stands empty.

Cloud must be someplace else. He cannot have gone up above the Plate, not when the conductor would have demanded a pass or a bribe. And, even armed with gil, Cloud surely would not have been lucid enough to attempt the latter. Unless…unless he was not alone. Unless someone helped him, used their own pass to buy an extra ticket. Or just _took_ him. 

Zack stumbles down the platform steps, rubbing the fabric above his sternum. 

Shinra does not care to sully the soles of its fine leather shoes with the dirt of the slums, but what if, this one time, it had? What if an agent grew bored, visited the city below, and stumbled into Cloud? Or a SOLDIER did? Or an infantryman? Or a Shinra employee? What if they saw Cloud’s Mako eyes and arrested him, snatching him while he could not fight back? What if Cloud _had_ fought back? What if he is injured? What if they dumped him back into Mako? What if he relapsed? What if he is dead?

_Gods, what if he’s dead._

Zack leans a trembling hand against the door of a dilapidated train car. He cannot take a full breath—just as he reaches the height of one, his lungs give out, freezing before contracting painfully. He does not understand what is happening to him. He presses down on his chest and starts inhaling more quickly to compensate for the lack of oxygen.

_What if he’s dead._

The little breaths do not help, only serving to make him light-headed, but now that he has started, Zack cannot stop gulping in air. What is wrong with him? One knee gives out, and Zack follows it to the ground, landing in a crouch. He covers his mouth with both hands, tries to force himself to stop inhaling, and leans his temple against the metal of the train car. He startles, breath hitching, at the sudden bite of cold. Pressing in harder, he zeroes in on that sharpness and tries to _think_. 

The first time Cloud had an episode, as far as Zack knows, was right in front of him. Cloud had simply stood up and walked away, seemingly uninterested in Zack and Aerith’s conversation, attracting only a moment’s worth of attention. Nothing had suggested that he was not moving of his own volition. Hanako certainly did not observe anything suspicious, too busy cursing yet another deserting employee. Which means that most people out on the street would be too preoccupied with their own lives to notice a quiet blond wandering by himself. Or, would they? If he did not look well, would they stop and—?

Zack squeezes his eyes shut and knocks his head against the metal.

They would not spare Cloud more than an appreciatory glance. And, if they had seen his eyes… Mako eyes are the sign of a SOLDIER. Who in their right mind would attack a SOLDIER, let alone try to apprehend one? They would at least regroup to form a battalion, as well as a plan. Or, perhaps they would simply flee, tail tucked between their legs.

Zack rolls his temple back and forth across the hard surface.

As for the Turks… In not so many words, Tseng promised to keep his agents in line. Perhaps Zack should not trust him—especially not when wrangling others is involved—but if he cannot trust someone who kept back years of love letters in the hopes of them one day reaching him, then Zack might as well give up on people entirely. 

_Shinra doesn’t have him_ , Zack tells himself, repeating it until he begins to believe it. Cloud is not here, but he is…somewhere. And Zack cannot sit around and wait for him to appear. 

Zack breathes. When he is able to draw a complete lungful, he nods to himself and concentrates on unfolding his legs. He is forced to grab hold of an empty window frame to pull himself upright, but, ultimately, he remains standing, even if his knees wobble threateningly. Running a palm against the metal for support, Zack walks along the train car toward the buildings he had spotted earlier. He had…been planning to check the one emblazoned with lights, he remembers. 

Zack pauses as he reaches the end of the train car and stares down at his feet. He does not understand what just happened to him, what that was, save solely that it was a product of his fear. He does not think that he can stand to endure another one.

“Oh! Sir, excuse me—”

Blinking, Zack glances up, wondering if he is the one being addressed. He straightens, mouth parting at the sight of the woman from the playground towing two children by their hands. 

“Hello,” he responds mechanically. 

Releasing one boy’s hand, the woman points back in the direction of the playground. “I think I saw your friend again. He was walking back to the market. He had a woman with him this time.”

“A woman?” Zack repeats dumbly and then charges up to her, prompting her to scurry to stand between him and her sons. Feeling awful, he takes a pointed step back before asking, “Did he look okay?”

Side-eyeing him, the woman nods and hurriedly gathers her sons, who have taken to staring at him, mouths agape. _Oh_ , Zack thinks, _my eyes_. He thanks her even as she beats a hasty retreat, sending him worried glances. 

Zack inhales deeply before taking off in a sprint, ignoring the sudden burn the action provokes. Cloud was with a woman, she said. Aerith perhaps? Zack had asked her to stay at the church, but there is no guarantee that she did, not when she wanted to help. She could have easily outpaced him here while he trawled Sector 5. 

Regardless, if it really was Cloud the woman saw, if he has resurfaced—Zack wipes a palm against his eye—then he will likely think to visit the Honey Bee first. Zack speeds up, meaning to catch up to him, and immediately has to stop, hacking out a cough. With a scowl, he resumes his path, albeit slowly. After his…fit back at the station, his lungs are not so willing to cooperate with him. 

Ages pass as Zack retraces his steps, but he does not have to wait long once he arrives at the Honey Bee’s courtyard. Arla, picking him out from the back of the crowd, abandons her post to join him. Thomas does not bat an eye at her desertion, remaining as stone-faced as a statue by the door. 

“Zack!” Arla calls out as she reaches him. “We talked to your boy.” Zack’s knees nearly buckle. “He said he was headed home.”

Zack lets loose a laugh—and then another one for good measure. Eyes prickling, he raises his hands and hides behind them for a fraught moment. “Okay,” he says, dropping his hands. “Okay. Then, does, does Thomas want me to go back to work?”

“What?” Arla deadpans, brows furrowing. “ _No_ , go see your husband, dumbass.” 

Given explicit permission, Zack turns and bolts away. He trusts his feet to know the way, hardly acknowledging his route home. If any monsters step out onto his path, Zack cannot say, but he passes through unharmed. All he knows is that Cloud waits at the end of this, his state unknown. Arla would have said if he looked to be in distress, but she has only met him a handful of times, and all of them brief—she would not know how to read his curbed emotions.

When Zack finally shoves open the church doors, the nave is painted largely in swathes of black, save for a pocket of tepid lantern light by the patch of lilies. Three dark figures stand silhouetted against it, but Zack has eyes only for one, the shape of its hair too unique to miss. The trio had jolted at his abrupt arrival, and they now pivot toward him as Zack propels himself down the aisle. 

Closer, Zack can finally parse the middle figure’s face, familiar and dear. Zack outstretches his arms in anticipation, and Cloud mirrors him, stepping forward. Then, just when Cloud is but a handspan away, he is abruptly pulled away, forcing Zack to stop in his tracks, lest he crash to the floor.

Zack’s vision bleeds. With startling clarity, he knows that, in this moment, he is capable of enacting terrible, unspeakable things. 

He focuses his gaze, ready to tear apart whatever dares to stand between him and Cloud—and finds himself staring at a ghost. Whatever power held Zack in its maddening grasp dissipates, leaving him floored and utterly spent. 

“ _Tifa?_ ”

“ _Zack?_ ” the woman yelps, eyes wide with shock.

The last Zack saw of her, Tifa was bleeding out on the floor of Nibelheim’s reactor. Barely holding onto life, she would have made a fitting test subject for Shinra’s machinations, but, after he finally escaped his Mako cell, Zack could find no trace of her, not even a record of experimentation. A part of him, resigned and grieving, quietly concluded that she must have died, her death yet another that Shinra struck from history. 

And yet, here she stands. And it _is_ Tifa, if an older version of her, taller and twice as muscular than he remembers. Her flowing, dark hair is just as long, her stare just as determined. If Zack has any doubts, they are erased at the sight of her steady grip on Cloud’s shoulders holding him back, her eyes tracking Zack’s body for any signs of movement.

For a panicked moment, Zack thinks that she _knows_. He steps back, faltering, before remembering how he, worried and frantic, must appear to them. Of course Tifa recoiled from him, dragging Cloud with her: Zack charged in from the darkness, eyes glowing and teeth bared. Even Aerith, hovering off to the side, appears startled as she darts her gaze between them. 

Uncertain, Zack appeals to Cloud for direction, but the blond is not looking his way. With noticeable effort, he shakes off Tifa’s grip and quickly rounds on her, frowning. “Tifa, what the hell are you doing?”

“Cloud, that’s Zack _Fair_ ,” Tifa hisses, shooting Zack a wary look. 

Zack, caught in her impression that he is a wolf among chocobos, instinctively stills, not wishing to be perceived as a threat. The anger that coursed through him has fully left him, only to be replaced by despair. All he wants is to gather Cloud close, assuring them both that he is safe, but to do that now could prove detrimental. Whatever Tifa is holding against him, it seems to go deeper than just a momentary scare.

Then, a memory nudges at him: Tifa, injured, flinching away from him, refusing his help. Zack parts his mouth, comprehension resting upon the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah?” Cloud finally glances back at him, brows creased in puzzlement. “I told you he’d be looking for me,” he says and lifts his hand pointedly, brandishing a folded piece of paper: his message, Zack realizes, hastily scrawled on a crumpled receipt. 

“I didn’t think you meant _him_.”

“What other Zack is there?” Cloud asks, painfully sincere. “Who did you think I meant?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t trust that one!” Tifa shouts, shaking her head rapidly. 

Zack presses his lips together, trying to smother the little sound of pain that crawls up his throat. He cannot say whether he succeeds, for Cloud shoots him an unreadable look before refocusing his attention on Tifa. 

“Why,” Cloud demands, tone inflectionless.

At that, Tifa’s ire seems to plummet, leaving her visibly distraught. Although he suspects what words, what accusations, will momentarily fly his way, Zack’s heart goes out to her. It was not _his_ home, after all, that was destroyed. Not his father, nor his mother, that were murdered. Zack stands at the ready and meets Tifa’s eyes. 

“Cloud, while you were gone,” Tifa says, not breaking her gaze, “Nibelheim, it—”

“He knows about Nibelheim,” Zack offers quietly, inclined to give her this one reprieve. If she had the choice, he cannot imagine that she would willingly repeat what happened to her hometown, so she must not know that Cloud was there. He must not have found the courage to approach her after all. 

“I’m sorry,” Zack says when Tifa remains silent, stunned. And then, because he would rather say it than hear it, he adds, “I know it’s my fault.” 

Distantly, he registers Aerith inhaling sharply, while, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cloud startle. “ _Zack_ —” he starts, only to be cut off.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Tifa demands, voice on the brink of fracturing. “He burned our homes. He killed _everyone._ What’s the point of being a SOLDIER if you can’t be there when you’re needed?” 

“I don’t know,” Zack answers because he has asked himself those selfsame questions multiple times, mostly on the road leading away from Nibelheim. In his darker moments, he reasoned that the years spent trapped underground were a fitting punishment for his failure. He now understands that this is nonsense, but the age-old thought resurfaces, unbidden. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats for lack of anything that could heal her hurt. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Cloud swears lowly, drawing everyone’s attention, “are you talking about.” He steps forward and glares at Zack and Tifa in turn. “Are _both_ of you blaming Zack for Nibelheim? _Zack?_ If you want someone to blame, blame Sephiroth. Hell, blame _Shinra_. Zack, I thought we talked about this. You didn’t fail anyone. It wasn’t your fucking fault.”

“Cloud, it’s okay,” Zack mutters, gentling his tone in the face of Cloud’s agitation. _Let Tifa have this_ , he wants to add.

“No,” Cloud says, and, just like that, his voice is even again. “It’s not okay. I’m not letting you do that to yourself.” For a moment, he works his jaw, parting and closing his mouth, before turning away. “Tifa, if not for Zack, I’d be dead. He’s the one who got me out of Nibelheim.”

Tifa furrows her brows and wraps an arm around her abdomen, cradling an elbow. “Out of Nibelheim?” she asks slowly. “When were you _in_ Nibelheim?” 

Zack winces, imagining that Cloud must be doing the same, albeit internally, as the blond lowers his head and sticks his hands into his pockets. He is the very picture of his youth: shy, besotted, and terrible at hiding it. This conversation, Zack realizes, is years overdue. Witness to it, Zack’s heart compels him to step forward; his brain chides him to step back. 

“At the same time Zack was,” Cloud admits.

“I don’t understand. There were only two SOLDIERs assigned to Nibelheim,” Tifa says as Cloud raises his head, her gaze no doubt fixed on the glow of his Mako eyes. 

“I…wasn’t a SOLDIER,” Cloud mutters after a tense silence. “I was one of the infantrymen.” 

“But then, if you were there… You never spoke to me…?”

Zack startles when a warm hand curves into his wrist. He looks down to find Aerith at his side, her face drawn, eyes kind. “Let’s give them some space,” she whispers, tugging at his arm. Heart screaming in outrage, he nods and lets himself be pulled away.

Aerith deposits him on the far side of the flower patch, just out of hearing range, and crouches. Although she busies herself with the blooms, her eyes dart rapidly, watching the conversation. 

Zack does not want to watch, especially not when he can see Cloud’s face from this angle, glowing with lantern light, so he drops to the steps before the altar and lowers his head to his bent knees, weary. Somewhere between his panic, fury, and guilt, Zack reached the limits of his stamina. All that, and he still does not know what happened to Cloud, or whether he is even truly okay.

 _Sure looks okay to me_ , remarks a snide voice, pointing at the couple interacting, but Zack waves it away. 

This is what it should always have been: a blond boy leaning over a dark-haired girl…and the girl reaching back, smiling.

 _And me on the ground, face-planting_ , Zack thinks, laughing into his thighs quietly. When he hears Aerith pause, concern in her stillness, he sighs and unfolds, loath to bring more attention to himself. He can tell that she is trying to catch his eye, but Zack cannot stand the thought of someone _seeing_ him right now. He is already far too exposed; if not for still needing to assure himself of Cloud’s well-being, he would flee.

_I need to stop feeling sorry for myself._

Heartbreak is not uncommon. It does not account for whether its arrival is timely, convenient, or even necessary. In the grand scheme of things, Zack is not special for suffering it, nor is his pain more or less significant than another’s. Yet, heartbreak, at the end of the day, is exhausting. Even pining, for all its bittersweetness, siphons more than it bestows. And Zack is so tired.

It is time to step back, his brain repeats—and Zack, glancing up to see Cloud gently touching Tifa’s shoulder, agrees. It is Tifa, after all, who gave Cloud the final draft of strength he needed to defeat Sephiroth, not Zack.

Sitting back and dropping his arms into his lap, Zack shuts his eyes and fights to empty his mind. He does not think about Cloud, dazed, meandering through Sector 7. He does not think about Tifa finding him, nor does he think about their reunion. Instead, he listens to the susurrus of conversation curling into his ear, the words too indistinct to carry meaning. He listens to the rustle of leaves yielding to Aerith’s fingertips, to the distant rumbles of machinery ever present in Midgar. 

Zack does not react when the soundscape changes, when the soft padding of feet steps into the melody, but he does resurface when a weight settles at his right and pushes against his upper arm. He opens his eyes and unwittingly smiles at Cloud, who watches him as his shoulder presses more fully against Zack’s arm. Cloud does not return his smile, but at least he is neither upset nor in pain—after the hour he has had, Zack could do with some sunshine, but he knows that he is not permitted to request any. 

“Zack.”

Reluctantly breaking his stare, Zack turns away to grant Tifa his full attention. She, unlike Cloud, circuited the flowers in the opposite direction, and stands closer to Aerith. The sensation of being surrounded settles against his spine like an itch, but his darker self grins in satisfaction at Cloud choosing to sit beside him, at Cloud placing Zack between himself and all else. This thought, too, he exiles.

“Zack, I’m sorry,” Tifa says, voice wavering. She looks him squarely in the eyes, stiff but contrite, her hands twined together like a ball of yarn. “Seeing you… It brought back memories I wasn’t prepared to deal with. But I shouldn’t have attacked you like that,” she adds hastily, words nearly slurring together. “It was wrong.”

“It’s okay,” Zack repeats, because _this_? This, Zack understands. He understands on a profoundly personal level. “Don’t beat yourself up. I would’ve done the same.” 

“ _Would_ you have?” 

“Well.” Inadvertently, Zack flicks his gaze at Cloud, who gently nudges his arm in what might be encouragement. “Partially,” Zack answers, remembering how swiftly Tifa plucked Cloud away from the incoming threat. 

“Really though,” Tifa insists, frowning, “please don’t blame yourself.”

“Consider it all forgotten.” Zack waves his hand carelessly, imagining the sands at Costa del Sol, his touch ruining a pattern drawn in the grains. “I’m just relieved—” _Especially for Cloud’s sake._ “—that you’re alive.”

In his peripheral vision, Aerith sneaks a glance his way and then springs up to her feet toward Tifa, crowding her. “How _did_ you survive?” Grasping her hands behind her back, Aerith leans forward and tilts her head coquettishly. 

Tifa blinks at her, visibly reeling—Zack cannot say that he blames her, especially not after Aerith’s over-the-top performance. “My master, Zangan,” Tifa replies after a moment’s pause, “got me out and brought me to Midgar. I’ve been here ever since.”

“Master?” Aerith repeats and pointedly inspects Tifa. “Oh, like a fighting master? Do you do martial arts?”

Smiling at Aerith’s blatant attempt to distract Tifa, Zack refocuses on Cloud, whose gaze slips away from the two women to meet his. 

Zack manages to solely utter a “how” before he is interrupted by Cloud’s arms latching onto his shoulders and dragging him forward. Too conflicted to do anything but respond, he automatically rests his hands on the curve of Cloud’s lower back and tilts his head, just grazing the blond’s ear with his cheek. The embrace, following Zack’s resigned and envious thoughts, feels like a lie. He should not be here, not when Cloud does not understand the depth of his regard, not when Cloud’s heart has refound its home.

Zack begins to pull away slowly, regretful and aching, but one of Cloud’s hands darts up and clutches onto his nape, refusing to release him. Helpless against it, Zack melts into the touch, exhaling into the arch of Cloud’s shoulder as his eyes burn. 

“No banning cuddles, remember?” Cloud whispers, and Zack nods brokenly. Pining does draw away strength, but the pain accompanying its sting is sweetly addictive. Resolutions aside, Zack cannot fathom how to stop, not in moments when his friend is generous with his affections. Like all things, it is easier said than done.

“I looked everywhere for you,” Zack confesses, aware of nothing but Cloud’s pulse and his familiar, homey scent. 

“I’m sorry,” Cloud murmurs alongside the sound of paper crinkling in his fist. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m okay.”

If he were left unchecked, Zack would stay caught in Cloud’s net indefinitely, but his brain kindly reminds him that he has an audience, one that is no doubt quick on the uptake. This time, Cloud slackens his grip when Zack pulls away, but he stays nearby, his knee knocking into Zack’s. After the…conversation Zack had with Tifa, his friend’s desire to comfort him comes at little to no surprise, but it is embarrassing to be in need of it. Shouldn’t Zack be the one giving comfort, not the one receiving it?

 _It doesn’t matter_ , Zack decides. He nearly fell apart only so many minutes prior, his lungs still straining with weakness—he is allowed some solace. 

“So, what happened?” Zack asks, projecting his voice to include Tifa, who glances up from speaking to Aerith.

“I’m not exactly sure,” she offers. “Cloud…?”

As one, Zack and Cloud glance at each other, sharing a downhearted look. “I don’t remember leaving the store or walking around,” Cloud replies quietly. “I was at work, and then I was with Tifa.”

Hovering above them, Tifa winces and nods. “I found him at the train station, completely dazed, so I took him back to Seventh Heaven—where I work. He was out of it for a good while, but when he finally ‘woke up,’ he said he needed to find you, so I didn’t really…” She pauses, frowning. “Cloud, what _did_ happen to you?”

 _What indeed_ , Zack wonders with a pang of anxiety. Overall, Cloud has been doing much better the last few weeks, both his dreams and moods improving, so what triggered the episode? Workplace stress? A deep-seated memory? Moreover, Cloud has never before lost so much time in one event. Does it then stand to reason that his symptoms will escalate?

If his episodes, as Zack once suspected, are not caused by combat fatigue, then they _are_ most likely a result of Shinra’s experiments. _Why_ , however, is an entirely different question. Zack, in contrast, has never lost time, so what is it about Cloud that has him wandering, incognizant? A susceptibility to Mako? Could it be just that? 

Zack’s fears aside, it is Cloud’s decision as to whether he wants to share any of this with Tifa, so he looks over, wordlessly asking for his input. After a pensive moment, Cloud tilts his head in her direction, permitting.

“Cloud was the one who defeated Sephiroth,” Zack explains, immediately earning a Mako-tinged stink eye, “but he was badly injured. Shinra…saw this as an opportunity. They—” _Just say it: don’t dwell._ “—imprisoned and experimented on us for four years, keeping us sedated most of the time. Or, me, anyway. They didn’t need to with Cloud. They exposed him to so much Mako that he became unresponsive, not talking or moving much. Or anything. He was like that for a really long time. It might be the reason for the, the sleepwalking, if we’re calling it that.”

“That’s what it feels like,” Cloud agrees, nodding slowly. “If I try, I can almost remember the train station. Like a dream.” 

“ _Four years?_ ” Tifa whispers, looking by all accounts like she might be in need of a bucket. 

“Yes. Zack got us out though,” Cloud adds—much to Zack’s confusion, as it has little relevance to the subject at hand. “Dragged my unconscious ass all over Gaia, Shinra following. And he took care of me the whole time, even though it would’ve been safer for him to leave me somewhere. Shinra caught up to us outside Midgar, and those _fuckers_ nearly killed him.”

Zack does not think he has ever heard Cloud swear as much as he has today. Nigh on discomfited, Zack knocks his knee against his friend’s, both to calm him and to remind him of the fact that he survived. In turn, Cloud huffs out an exasperated sigh, seemingly chastened. 

“They sent an army after you.” Cloud shakes his head, scowling. “They rebuilt Nibelheim. What else are they covering up?”

SOLDIER is a den of monsters, but Shinra is a den of secrets. Only half remembered through the distance of memory, Tseng’s voice ricochets back to Zack, almost mocking: _Something Shinra should no longer be meddling with_. Tseng—he would know. And, beyond that, Sephiroth… He found something, too, down in the vaults of the Nibelheim mansion. Those records proved to be the general’s breaking point, but, four years later, Zack was in the middle of running for his life, having little time to peruse them. 

Now, laden with more questions than answers, he regrets not uncovering those secrets for himself. 

“A lot, if you listen to my friend tell it,” Tifa answers and wipes a hand across her face, shuddering. “I— Gods, I have so many questions, but it’s rush hour. I need to get back to the bar.”

Cloud stands, pushing off Zack’s knee for leverage. “Right. We can talk more later. There’s a lot to catch up on.”

Zack does not wince at Cloud’s warm tone, not when Tifa is the reason Cloud was returned to him—at least, in whatever respect Zack is allowed to have him. Grateful, he summons his most honest smile and aims it at Tifa. “Thank you for looking after Cloud.” 

“Of course. It was the least I could do,” Tifa replies, smiling at her friend. 

From this angle, Zack does not see Cloud’s face, but he can just picture it: his features gone adoring and soft. He has only caught previews of the look, daydreaming that it could one day be sent his way. But, when Cloud turns and glances down— _at Zack_ —he is decidedly neutral, decidedly indifferent. This pain, unlike that of pining, presses down on his chest until his rib cage cracks, splintering into the tissues of his heart. 

“Maybe I should go with her,” Cloud suggests. “I need to apologize to Hanako.”

 _Oh_ , Zack thinks, _right_.

“S-sunshine, ah,” Zack stutters, the nickname slipping through the tatters of his apprehension, “I talked to Hanako when I was looking for you. She thinks you quit. She…told me to tell you not to come back.”

When Cloud freezes in place, eyes widening, Zack rises to his feet, worried. Before he can decide whether to reach out, Cloud shuts his eyes and cranes his head. “ _Fuck_. Who else will hire me if I’m just gonna walk out on them? She probably told everyone by now.”

“Could you ask for your job back?” Aerith offers uncertainly. “Maybe if you explain…?”

“It wasn’t that great a job to begin with,” Cloud mutters. Quirking a wry smile, he asks, “How’s the flower market right now?”

“Actually,” Tifa interrupts, raising a hand, “I think I have a solution. I’m sure I could get you work at the bar, if you’re willing.”

“Willing?” Cloud repeats blankly, brows rising. “I could be convinced if you pay more than thirty-five a shift.”

Releasing a little laugh, Tifa shakes her head. “I think I can arrange that.” 

“That’s amazing,” Zack comments, his heart ambling between joy and sadness. It is, after all, a relief that Cloud will not have to deal with the stress of having to find another job, regardless of where he ends up. “You two getting to work together after all this time.”

“It is funny, isn’t it?” Tifa agrees, smiling. “Alright, I _really_ do need to run, but I’ll come back tomorrow ‘round noon.” With that, she waves demurely, sparing them all one last look, and hurries away. 

“Tifa, sorry, hold up,” Cloud calls out, rushing to catch up to her. “Can I talk to you alone for a second?”

Zack steps forward.

He watches the couple whispering together in the aisle, their figures cast in but a hint of lantern light. As Tifa’s smile grows, Cloud tilts his head, inadvertently hiding his face from Zack’s. He might as well be leagues away. For all his hopes, for all his dreams, Zack cannot traverse this distance.

He steps back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Fun fact: The mention of Zack giving Cloud a haircut was inspired by my D&D campaign. My fighter, Zack (yep, I’m obsessed), rolled a nat 20 on giving an NPC a haircut.  
> \- Of course Cloud didn’t manipulate Zack into applying for a job beneath the Plate where it’s safer. That would be absolutely RIDICULOUS.  
> \- I created Verre as a side character out of necessity and now I love her very much.  
> \- I can’t believe this fic actually forced me to consider how taxes work in Midgar.  
> \- When Zack is cooking, Aerith is, in fact, calling Cloud out for not being able to express his feelings directly, but Zack misinterprets like a champ.  
> \- I know that Zack is largely headcanoned as an extrovert, but a part of me wonders whether that’s actually true. Even though he is friendly and outgoing, Zack in CC never really goes out of his way to spend time with anyone except his close friends, and even then he nearly always sees them one-on-one. Maybe he’s more of an ambivert, if anything. Regardless, he doesn’t come across to me as someone who would be happy being alone for long periods of time. Those months of eluding Shinra were grueling in many ways.  
> \- There’s a throwaway line in canon that implies Cloud can’t cook, but I chose to ignore it because I think it’s dumb. Given that Cloud grew up with a single parent, I have a hard time believing that he didn’t help out around the house as much as he could. Anyway, his mom says the line in such a way that can arguably be interpreted as her just being worried about him being able to take care of himself rather than him actually not knowing how to cook.  
> \- Cloud: I gotta gay―GOTTA GO.  
> \- Speak the silver-haired devil’s name, and he will appear.  
> \- Figuring out Zack and Tifa’s dynamic was a true challenge, especially given Zack’s feelings for Cloud and his assumption that Cloud loves Tifa. Would he be jealous? Undoubtedly. Would he act on that jealousy? Not necessarily. And then we have Tifa, who only briefly met Zack but must definitely associate him with what happened to Nibelheim. In an earlier draft, she was far more aggressive toward him, but it just didn’t fit well with any other dynamic (would Aerith still like Tifa, for example, if she were mean to Zack?). I hope that I’ve managed to balance it well enough that it doesn’t feel out of character for either of them.  
> \- I love Tifa’s outfit redesign for the remake, but I wish they had given her more muscle definition. She punches for a living for fuck’s sake.  
> \- Three guesses as to what (whom) Cloud is privately talking about to Tifa.


	5. Chapter 5

Zack should be sleeping. Instead, he is lying on his back, staring into the night, and reimagining the ceiling. In his waking dream, it is far closer—reachable, if he stands, stretching—and built of strong wood that will not crumble so easily with age. Where there are holes in the church’s roof, pitch-black, he adds skylights, revealing the stars. 

The world outside is not marred by a mechanical din, but pacified by a syncopated melody of chirping insects. Inside, the bedroom is awash in comforting sounds: a figure breathing steadily at his side, a dog snuffling sleepily into a rug, a cat purring, having stolen into the warmed spot by his head. 

Threatening to fully submerge into the dream, Zack reminds himself that this is a dangerous space within which to let his mind wander. As a soldier, he was taught never to think too far ahead, to consider only his service to Shinra; anything beyond that—a home, a spouse, a normal life—would have to be tabled until further notice. Even now, he understands that, as fugitives, they— _he_ —cannot be granted such a generous measure of peace. At least, not yet. 

They say it does not hurt to dream. Whoever “they” are, they are all liars. 

Zack resurfaces to an unwelcome sound ruining his imaginings: a whimper. Blinking into focus, he turns his head and carefully observes the rhythm of Cloud’s back. As soon as Cloud’s breathing changes, accelerating, Zack extends a hand, places it on his shoulder, and strokes with his thumb, fabric bunching up under his touch.

“Cloud,” he whispers. Although his heart screams the order, he does not curl into him. He remains where he is, waiting.

After a moment, Cloud inhales sharply and tenses. Then, all at once, he relaxes and lifts a shaking hand to his face, groaning but cognizant. Duty done, Zack retracts his hand with one last squeeze before settling back and returning his gaze to the ceiling. Not a second later, Cloud rolls over and tucks his face into the side of Zack’s arm. He grumbles, seemingly still resonating with the echoes of his nightmare. 

Meanwhile, Zack’s heart swells. It does not count, it tells him, if Cloud reaches out to him first. 

Zack nonetheless stays in place, neither stiff nor fully at ease. He expects Cloud to fall back into slumber, but the latter’s breathing remains wakeful, fidgety. Zack notes every puff of air against his arm, feeling his skin warming to the shape of Cloud’s mouth. He dares not shift away.

At this rate, they will both be exhausted in the morning, but, he supposes, nothing says that they cannot sleep in, as Cloud’s shift at Seventh Heaven does not start until four. As such, they are both free to sleep off last night’s work in peace. Already, the past days have seen improvement, Cloud no longer coming home as drained as he had from Hanako’s. Tifa, thankfully, knows him well enough not to ask him to socialize with the clientele.

The only setback is that, now that they work in different sectors, neither has enough time to find dinner, walk over, share the meal, and walk back in the span of half an hour. Zack has spent his last few shifts struggling to hide a sour face, for which both Thomas and Arla—after confirming that Cloud was doing well after his episode—teased him mercilessly on separate occasions. It was all in good fun— _of course_ Zack would be pouting about missing his husband. 

“Too adorable,” they said. “You two must have such a good relationship.”

Zack just smiled and looked away.

Still, he really should be sleeping. Zack does not want to lean over to check the time, but it must be late. He knows that he will drift off as soon as he shuts his eyes, but he is reluctant to leave this fantasy he has constructed for himself. It is kinder than their— _his_ —current reality.

As though hearing his thoughts, Cloud pulls his face away from Zack’s arm and whispers, “Not sleeping?”

“Mm,” Zack agrees. And then, because he cannot abstain from including Cloud in his imaginings, he asks, “If you could go anywhere—leave Midgar—where would you go?”

In the ensuing silence, Zack listens to the gears turning in Cloud’s head, wondering whether his dreams in any way resemble his, regardless of whether Zack is in them. He can definitely at least picture Cloud with a cat, both sporting endearingly grumpy expressions.

“I think,” Cloud answers, words coming slowly, “somewhere quiet. Maybe not too cold. Snow’s only fun the first couple days.” 

Zack, who grew up in a nigh on tropical climate, nods in sympathy. Quiet, too, is particularly appealing. He would not want the sounds in his dreamscape, hushed and rhythmic, to be drowned out by passing cars or sleepless neighbors. 

“What about you? Where would you go?”

Zack parts his lips, considers describing the little house his mind built, and answers, “Somewhere I can see the sky.” He registers Cloud turning his head to watch the ceiling, copying him. After a moment, Cloud hums, sounding thoughtful, and pokes his elbow.

“Close your eyes,” he orders gently.

“What?”

“Just do it,” Cloud insists and, after Zack does, adds, “Now, rub them.” 

Curious, Zack presses his palms against his eyelids and does as asked. It is only after Cloud whispers, “Do you see the stars?” that Zack catches on, bursting into delighted laughter. 

“Yeah,” Zack agrees between chuckles, “I do.” He drops his hands and rests them on his abdomen, while Cloud settles back down and leans his cheek against Zack’s arm. Seemingly in afterthought, he curls a hand into the curve of Zack’s elbow. Inwardly, Zack sighs.

“My mom taught me that,” Cloud murmurs.

Zack glances sideward. He cannot quite see Cloud’s expression, but he had spoken with the gravitas of having revealed a secret—not especially a cause for alarm. “It’s nice,” he offers. “Thanks.”

“Mm-hm.”

Mostly cheered out of his melancholy mood, Zack finally closes his eyes and allows himself to drift. His dream will keep, he tells himself—and besides, does he even need to escape to it? It is not so terrible here where Cloud can make him laugh with little effort, where he touches him with no hesitation. 

The thing is, pining aside, it is their friendship that Zack cherishes most. As long as he has that, he will be satisfied. Hearts can mend and sprout new beginnings, if given time. His will not be broken forever.

“You know how there’s only an hour’s difference between our shifts?” Cloud asks suddenly, some nebulous amount of time later. He sounds far more awake than he has cause to be.

“Yeah?” Zack mutters, not even bothering to open his eyes. Visions of sunlight are creeping into the peripheries of his thoughts, tampering with them until they are tinged with surreality. 

“You should walk with me to the bar, then go to work from there. Tifa won’t mind if you wait around.”

Inhaling deeply, Zack attempts to pull himself back from the brink of sleep. His eyelids, however, do not cooperate, remaining stubbornly sealed. “Mm, you worried? ‘Bout losin’ time?”

“Sort of. It’s more that…I don’t want you to lose _me_ ,” Cloud admits, voice tender through the filter of Zack’s encroaching dream. “I mean, I don’t want to do that to you again.”

“Mm, wasn’t fun,” Zack agrees, inspecting the train car that has driven into his kitchen, its metal side glinting brightly in the morning light.

“So walk with me,” Cloud insists. Something digs into the fold of Zack’s elbow.

“M’kay.”

From a distance, Zack hears someone—the conductor?—say his name, but he is no longer capable of speech. He lets out a little hum, deciding that it would be rude not to acknowledge whomever took pains to run a train through his house just to ask a question. 

“Never mind. Sleep.”

“Mm…”

\---

Seventh Heaven, unlike the buildings in the Wall Market, is more muted in its self-advertisement, sporting far fewer neon signs and even fewer promises of fulfillment. Walking through its door should take neither effort nor bravado, and yet here Zack is, stumbling to a halt only feet away from its steps.

“Are you sure Tifa won’t mind?” he asks, catching the attention of Cloud, who cranes his head back before stopping in place and swiveling to face him. 

“Why would she mind?” Cloud remarks, voice ringing with forced casualness. 

Zack sends his friend a _look_ , unwilling to play this game. He only half remembers agreeing to walk Cloud to Sector 7 last night, the memory framed with visions of train cars and abyssal sighs, but he cannot imagine that Tifa had been the one to initially extend the invitation. Following their disastrous reunion, Zack made an attempt to be especially cordial to her when she returned the next day, but he could sense her wariness behind the smiles. He took no offense. In his experience, the wounds dealt in Nibelheim have not been quick to heal.

Capitulating to Zack’s skepticism, Cloud pockets his hands with a thoughtful frown. “She might be awkward around you, but it’s not because she doesn’t like you. She still feels bad for what she said.”

 _She wasn’t wrong though_ , Zack thinks but does not say, clicking his mouth shut at Cloud’s narrowed gaze, not wanting to spur the blond into another swear-filled tirade. That, and there are only so many pity parties Zack can host before the sound of himself moaning over lost love turns stale and trite. 

“Besides,” Cloud continues when Zack wisely remains silent, “I want you two to get along. I think you’d like her if you got to know her.”

“I do like her,” Zack protests. He does, is the thing. From the little he has seen of her, he can understand what _Cloud_ must see in her. Zack only hopes that Tifa can match his love for Cloud—he does not believe that he could not stand idle if Cloud remained either unloved or not loved to capacity. 

Cloud raises his brows, removing his hands from his pockets. “Okay, so let’s go inside.” With that, he turns around and walks up the steps, and Zack has no choice but to follow him through the door. 

After the lavishness of the Honey Bee, the bar’s dimly lit interior is a rest for weary eyes. Where the former relies on spectacle to soothe its customers’ troubles, this place offers a more straightforward approach to damning the reality of the slums. Zack is no stranger to alcohol, having spent enough boisterous evenings drinking with his fellow soldiers, so he understands the draw of this forgetful gloom. He himself could list several memories that he would care to drown in the dregs of a tankard. It is the fear that, once started, he would not stop that stays his hand. 

At the back of the taproom, Tifa stands behind the bar, gaze cast down at her work. She lifts it as they enter, eyes catching on Cloud before shifting to Zack. To her credit, Tifa’s smile does not falter once. He does not know her well, but the gesture strikes him as genuine. If it is not, then they are more alike than he thought, both being convincing actors.

“Hello,” Tifa greets, dipping her head. “Nice to see you again, Zack.”

“Likewise,” he offers, hanging back. 

Cloud waves and marches through the doorway at the back of the room, apparently diving straight into work and abandoning Zack to handle the social niceties on his own. Tifa, unaffected by the brusque behavior, brandishes a rag and shakes her head in amusement. 

Meanwhile, Zack dithers by the exit, wondering if Cloud would berate him for escaping. Even after racking his brain, he does not have a legitimate excuse for doing so—that is, not one that would not also invite probing questions. Still, it is the thought of disappointing Cloud that rallies his courage. Cloud did say that he wants him to get along with Tifa, and why would he not want his crush and his friend to like each other? Making an attempt is the least Zack can do, especially if Tifa is willing to meet him in the middle. 

For the sake of their friendship, Zack steels himself and heads toward the counter to claim a seat. “Is it okay if I wait here for my shift? I know you’re not open, but…” He hovers in wait, not wanting to assume her consent based solely on Cloud’s insistence.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Tifa waves a soapy hand in indication for him to sit. “I can’t get you anything to drink just this second though.”

“That’s fine. I wouldn’t before work, anyway.” Zack drops down onto the bar stool and reaches up on autopilot before stilling, fingers grazing the temple of his sunglasses. Tifa, expressionless and tense, watches him. Then, she quirks a little smile, and Zack exhales in relief. Cloud’s eyes glow with the same intensity as his—if she could not handle seeing Zack’s, it would not bode well for Cloud. 

As Zack slips off the sunglasses and clips them onto his collar, Tifa refocuses on washing glassware in what he can now see is a sink hidden behind the counter. In the ensuing silence, he twitches his leg up and down in rapid succession, suddenly at a loss at what to say. What would the friend of a man say to said man’s crush? Something complimentary, no doubt, or else something to help along the pair’s courtship. Or, Zack realizes, perhaps the friend would scope out the situation, gauging whether the man has any chances with his crush.

Zack quickly throttles the wistful thought that Cloud might not.

“So,” Zack says, leaning an arm against the counter and dropping his chin into his palm, “are you happy to have Cloud around again?” Internally, he winces, wondering if he could have been any more unsubtle. “Since you were friends growing up, I mean.” 

Raising her head, Tifa slowly blinks her dark-red eyes at him, half washed glass in her hands. “Yes, of course. We actually…” Tifa cuts her gaze away, staring down into the sudsy water. “We weren’t that close when we were kids, but, talking to him now… We just clicked. We have more in common now than we realized before. It’s almost surreal.”

“You weren’t close as kids?” Zack repeats, frowning. He shelves the rest of her words away to digest in private, not wanting to risk falling apart in front of her.

“Well, we got a little closer before he left for Midgar,” Tifa admits, smiling wryly, “but we didn’t keep in touch. I wish I had. Maybe he would have actually talked to me when he came back.” 

“Cloud’s a shy one,” Zack agrees, reeling from Tifa’s forthcomingness. He supposes that she has not had anyone to talk to about this until now, but perhaps this is her own attempt to mend bridges with him—whether out of kindness or in an attempt to get on Cloud’s good side. If it is the latter, then… Well, that is…wonderful, isn’t it?

Zack recalls Cloud sitting on a bed in the Nibelheim inn, hunched over and equivocating around his moon-sized crush. To think that he kept that love locked within himself, too afraid to approach Tifa. Zack assumed that Cloud had just been remiss in rekindling his friendship with her, but, even as kids, he must have only admired her from afar—to Tifa’s disappointment. 

Feeling sorry for her, Zack reveals, “I could tell that he _wanted_ to talk to you though, so please don’t feel bad.” And then, hoping that she will appreciate a glimpse of Cloud’s feelings, he adds, “You should have seen him pretending not to care. It was adorable.”

Tifa laughs. To his relief, it is not a sound tarnished with mockery, but one gilded in joy. 

“I’m sure it was,” Tifa agrees, shaking her head slowly as her smile shrinks. “It’s okay. At least he had you looking out for him. I’m glad you’re friends. He was—” She side-eyes some bottles with a soft, pensive look. “—never really friends with any of the other kids. Too angry, you know? Even at our closest, I can tell Cloud and I were nowhere as close as you two are.” 

“Oh, we—” Zack straightens in his seat, his grin faltering. If a wingman has any other job besides talking up his friend, then it is to avoid seeming like an obstacle. “Yeah, I mean, we’re _close_ , but not in an unreachable way or anything. If you give it time, you two can be just as close.”

Tifa stills, brows furrowing in what must be skepticism. “Right… If you say so.”

Tifa turns away to set a load of washed glasses on the drying rack, her long, dark hair flicking with how quickly she moves. Not wanting to drop the subject at such a crucial moment, Zack starts to speak, only to falter as he registers a strange sort of light-footed scurrying.

He looks down and sideward and finds himself arrested by two wide eyes staring up at him. 

“Uhh, Tifa? There’s a kid in here.”

The “kid” in question appears to be a very young girl, her face mostly hidden behind the adjacent stool. Zack notes that she, if he were to stand, would not reach his hip—would, in fact, barely pass his knee. What she is doing in this bar, clothed in a cheerful, pink dress, is beyond him.

“Oh, that’s Marlene. Barret’s daughter,” Tifa explains with a chuckle, leaning over the counter to smile down at her.

“Hi, Marlene. I’m Zack,” he dutifully greets, his need to be friendly overriding his confusion. When Marlene shows a hint of a timid smile but does not peek out from the safety of the stool, Zack looks to Tifa for answers. “Who’s Barret?”

“Me,” calls a deep voice. 

Zack observes that the man appearing in the doorway would have absolutely no trouble getting a job as a bouncer at the Honey Bee, so long as Verre made her decision based solely on height and muscle mass. _First Thomas, and now Barret_ , he thinks nonsensically as the man approaches the bar counter and stops by Marlene. The girl immediately raises her arms, imploring, and he obliges, stooping and scooping her up with just his left arm.

“Hello, your arm is a literal gun” is what Zack manages to _not_ blurt out in greeting. Instead, Zack says a quiet “hey” and does everything in his power to avoid staring at the man’s right arm—or, rather, at his unconventional prosthetic. Instead, he focuses on how sweetly Marlene wraps her short arms around Barret’s neck, tucking her face into his cheek. Zack grins, charmed by the sight. 

“You Cloud’s friend?” Barret asks, his gaze flicking to Zack as soon as Marlene finishes settling into place.

“Yeah, I’m Zack. Good to meet you.” 

“Barret,” he repeats genially enough and then proceeds to look him over with a critical eye. Zack has…been on the end of this sort of look before, but he cannot quite tell, in this case, whether he is currently being sized up or checked out—or both. Zack decides that he does not especially mind either way, but, when Barret’s gaze catches on his own and stays there, he suddenly remembers that his sunglasses are hanging on his collar.

Laughing awkwardly to himself, Zack rotates toward the counter and threads his fingers into the side of his hair, hiding his face. Barret lets out a little humph and, with Marlene in tow, leaves the same way he entered, not even bothering to say a goodbye. 

As soon as Barret is out of hearing distance, Zack beckons for Tifa’s attention and leans in conspiratorially. “Whoa, does he work here? Do you even _need_ Cloud after all that muscle?” He winks, exaggerating the gesture. 

Tifa laughs, ducking her head to stifle the chuckles. “I have plenty of muscle without either of them,” she quips, with which Zack wholeheartedly agrees, “but no, Barret doesn’t work here. He lives upstairs with Marlene, and he uses the bar as a sort of…” Tifa raises her palm and rocks it back and forth. “Base of operations?”

“Base?” Zack repeats, not especially liking the militant connotation of the word, especially paired with Barret’s gun arm. One does not choose such a prosthetic lightly. “What does he do?”

When Tifa hesitates, it raises Zack’s suspicions higher—which then ping in confirmation when she replies, “You’d have to ask him directly.”

Zack hums, considering as Tifa busies herself at the other end of the bar. The last time he was in the know of some sensitive information, Shinra nearly succeeded in executing him. As worrying as whatever this is sounds, just the thought of following this trail to see where it leads exhausts him. Sighing quietly, Zack leans against the counter, slides forward, and plops his chin on his crossed forearms, all the while jerking his leg up and down. He was not always this withdrawing, but he cannot help but wish to avoid anything that could lead to exposure.

Zack may have taken a step back, but he will always put Cloud’s safety first.

As though summoned, Cloud walks through the doorway, bearing an unlidded case of bottles. After dropping it off on the counter, he glances Zack’s way and smirks. “Comfy?”

“Yuuup,” Zack drawls, not bothering to lift his chin, its sharpness digging into his bones.

Cloud looks down at his wristwatch and says, “I’ll tell you when you have fifteen left,” before leaving once more, Zack calling out a thanks at his retreating back.

In the following din of clinking glass and splashing water, Zack finds himself growing ever restless, his energy manifesting in fidgets and unwelcome spirals of self-deprecating thought. He estimates that he must still have at least twenty minutes to wait until he has to leave, but likely more. Sure, he could just sit around and talk himself to distraction, but… 

“So!” Zack exclaims, jolting up from his sprawl. “Do you need any help around here? Like, right this second?”

Tifa looks over from where she is sorting through the bottles Cloud delivered and shakes her head, laughing softly. “Thanks, but no. I can only afford to pay one of you.”

“I don’t need to be paid,” Zack insists, hopping up from the stool and shifting in place. “You’d be doing me a favor. I have all this energy I need to burn off, and I’m just gonna be standing around for hours after this.”

“Well, I, um—” Frowning, Tifa scratches the side of her jaw, visibly casting for inspiration as she inspects the entirety of the taproom. “I guess…you could…wipe down the tables?”

“You got it!” Zack reaches across the counter and liberates Tifa’s previously abandoned rag.

Some relatively short time later, Cloud reenters the taproom and stops in his tracks. After taking in the sight of Zack fervently sweeping the floor, he turns to the bar and says, “ _Tifa_.”

“What?” Tifa protests as Zack stops the broom in mid sweep and sheepishly grins at Cloud. “He really wanted to help,” she continues, shrugging in puzzlement.

“Of course he did,” Cloud deadpans. He walks over to steal the broom, which Zack—feeling playful after depressurizing—refuses to release even as Cloud tugs at it determinedly. “Come on, time’s up. You gotta get to work.”

Grinning, Zack lets go just as Cloud pulls at it again, but the latter barely sways in place, having anticipated the prank. Zack is decidedly impressed—and Cloud knows it, judging by his smug expression. 

“Asshole,” Cloud says, tone light. “So, should I wait for you here later?”

“Later?”

“After work,” Cloud clarifies with a smirk, eyes luminous in the murkiness of the bar. “So we can walk back together?”

“Oh,” Zack says intelligently, tilting his head. Zack is almost certain that he only agreed to escort Cloud _to_ work, but he will not be the one to point that out. To avoid another incident, either he, Aerith, or Tifa should keep an eye on him as often as possible—and for as long as Cloud can stand. Anyway, Zack cannot say that he minds the extra walk, even if it means he will be forced to double back. “Yeah. We could do that.” 

“Alright. I’ll see you later, then. And, if you’re gonna sweep—” Cloud carefully leans the broom against the edge of a table. “—use a dustpan next time.” With that, he disappears into the back once more, no doubt in search of said dustpan.

“Eh, you get what you pay for!” Zack hollers and raises his brows at Tifa when no response follows. She shakes her head, thankfully more amused than annoyed. Still, aware that he is close to overstaying his welcome, Zack begins to formulate a farewell, only to be interrupted when the door behind him opens.

“Sorry,” Tifa calls out, leaning to the side to see the visitor, “we’re not open y— Oh! Uh, hello, Aerith.”

“Hi, Tifa!” says what is absolutely Aerith’s voice.

Zack turns around, staring dumbly. Aerith, whose sunny disposition clashes with the present soberness of the bar, smiles sweetly and waves. Her basket full of cheery flowers only underscores her improbable presence. 

“I just wanted to stop by for a moment to say hi,” Aerith explains. She then looks over at Zack as though only just noticing him, her expression caught. Even as it melts into one of delight, a sadness begins to percolate at the base of Zack’s heart. Aerith did say, he realizes, that her crush worked at this bar.

“Hiya, Zack!” Aerith sing-songs, green eyes playfully knowing. “You dropping Cloud off?”

“Yeah,” Zack agrees with a soft look, voice rough around the edges. “But I gotta leave for my shift now.”

“Oh.” Aerith pouts, but she quickly masks her disappointment with a smile and nonchalant wave. “I guess you can’t help that. Mind if I come by tomorrow?”

“Nope. Tomorrow it is,” Zack confirms, smiling and wishing that he could convey everything he knows, everything he suspects, through the curve of his mouth. 

For a moment, Zack watches as she walks past him toward the counter, noting how she smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in her dress and adjusts the flower basket. Then, he looks away. He can let Aerith have this one afternoon free of doubt and second-guesses. He imagines that it will not take long to figure it out: they will know soon enough whether he and Aerith will cast off together in the same boat, lovesick and dejected.

For now, he retreats.

\---

To accuse Zack of avoiding Aerith would not be _wholly_ justified. Indeed, they are both situated in the nave of the church, each within hearing distance of the other. Zack sits with his back against one of the stone columns, face hidden behind a book, while Aerith, as per usual, tends to her garden. She appears content to work in silence, only humming on occasion, encouraging the flowers to grow. If she wants to comment on Zack’s uncharacteristic behavior, then she is showing remarkable restraint.

So, no, Zack is not avoiding her. He is, however, stalling. 

Last night, he spent an immeasurable length of time thinking about Aerith’s crush and what to say to her—or whether he even should. Aerith, after all, is cleverer than him; if he were to let things lie, then she would undoubtedly reach her own conclusions. Still, it seems cruel to give her no warning at all. In the end, Zack did not manage to make a decision—largely because Cloud, half asleep, had grabbed his arm and pulled him flush against his back, murmuring about the chill. It was then that he was forced to focus on something else entirely, or, rather, focus on _not_ focusing.

So, here is where Zack finds himself: with his nose in a book that he is only half reading, too distracted to appreciate it fully. The book, perhaps in retaliation, shows little sympathy toward him, regaling him with a tale of a star-crossed couple—and therefore denying him any form of escapism. It does not help that Cloud is absent, having left early to help Tifa with a shipment. As a result, now would be the best time to speak to Aerith, but Zack is damned if he knows how.

“Do you think Tifa would like flowers?” Aerith asks abruptly, ruining all his flimsy plans in a single blow. 

Warily, Zack lowers the book to catch a glimpse of her face, but her head is turned toward her lilies. Stalling even further, he asks, “Like, in general?”

“As a gift.” Aerith looks over and raises her brows. “You know, a _gift_. A ‘I could see us as more than friends’ gift.”

“Oh,” Zack deadpans, purposely channeling Cloud. “ _That_ sort of gift.”

“Yes.” She giggles into a soil-encrusted hand. “So? What do you think? Do I have a chance?”

Quietly, Zack sighs and abandons the book on the floor, certain that he will not be picking it up again except to return it to its proper place. “I’m not sure,” he hedges, playing with the fabric of his pants. “What sort of energy are you getting from her?”

Leaning back to perch on top of her calves, Aerith tilts her head and hums. “I’d say…awkward? Not _awkward_ awkward, but…adorably awkward?”

“You’re lucky I understood that,” Zack quips after huffing out a laugh. “That might be promising?” 

And yet, it could just as easily be something else. Cloud, too, can be awkward when caught unawares, even if he might wear it as grumpiness. Others might contest him, but Zack would call that adorably awkward… The _point_ is that it is so very easy to project one’s feelings onto the subject of one’s affections. Just because Cloud—that is—just because _Tifa_ is being adorably awkward around Aerith does not indicate that she returns her interest. The last thing Zack wants is to give Aerith false hope.

“How obviously did you flirt with her?” he asks instead, knowing Aerith well enough to assume. 

To his surprise, Aerith blushes and admits, “Not very. I didn’t want to come on too strong, and she was working, so…”

“Probably for the best,” Zack replies unwittingly and then snaps his mouth shut. 

“Is that a no on the flowers?” Aerith dips her chin into her hand and closes her eyes. “I guess that would be too forward…” When Zack does not respond, she glances over and shakes her head minutely. “Just tell me what’s on your mind, Zack.”

Moving slowly, Zack bends one knee, tucks it toward himself, and begins to rock it from side to side. He opens his mouth, closes it, and works his jaw. “Cloud likes Tifa,” he finally announces, looking away. “I think she might like him back, but I’m not sure. I’m sorry.” 

“No,” Aerith replies, the word as heavy as a cornerstone bearing down upon Zack’s chest, “he doesn't.”

Zack is helpless against the burst of rage that courses from the chambers of his heart to the tracks of his veins. Through sheer will, he forces himself to slow his breathing, to unclench his fingers. _She means well_ , he tells himself. It is not kind of her to reassert this assumption she imprinted on, but she. Means. Well. 

“Aerith, I know—” Zack places his palms against his lidded eyes, pressing down until he can…can see the stars. “―you have this idea that Cloud and I like each other. And I get it: it’s fun to tease. But, it, it hurts to talk about, so could you please _not_?”

Zack does not drop his hands, not even at the sound of a scrape followed by rapid footsteps coming his way. His eyes are burning, and he is loath to expose them to air and thus feed the flames. He hears Aerith dropping to the floor next to him, but she—wisely—does not reach out.

“Wait, Zack, I’m sorry, just—” Aerith releases a noise of frustration, one that Zack does not believe he has ever heard her make. “ _Listen_ : I know he doesn’t like Tifa because Cloud _told_ me he doesn’t.”

_What?_

“What?” Zack repeats. He does not lower his hands from his face, but only because they have already fallen of their own accord, betraying his shock. He has heard Aerith’s words, yet he cannot extrapolate beyond them, mind still muddled with dying anger. Cloud _told_ her? How would that have even come up?

Zack stares at Aerith, who looks more pained than he has ever seen her, and asks, “Were you asking him if Tifa’s single, or…?”

“Not exactly.” Aerith scoots over and, seemingly no longer wary, leans against his side in a solid line. “I was, hm, still at the bar when he went on break. _He_ wanted to talk to _me_ , and the conversation just naturally ended up going there.”

Zack wants to interrogate her. He wants to hold her close and beg her to tell him the rest of what they whispered to each other. He knows not to try. Aerith would tell Zack what they spoke of just as quickly as she would reveal to Cloud Zack’s own secrets. Still, even without further prodding, that leaves him with… 

_Cloud doesn’t like Tifa? Cloud doesn’t like…Tifa._

Even when Zack concluded that Tifa must have perished in Nibelheim, he had thought of her as Cloud’s, and vice versa. And perhaps it is yet so, but in the same way that Aerith is Zack’s, and he is hers. Cloud, like Zack, might have changed the tune of his heart. Zack can scarcely guess when, as Cloud has spent most of the past year unconscious. 

Maybe… Cloud _had_ spoken of feeling unlike himself. Maybe, in the midst of having to adjust to their new reality, Cloud’s love for Tifa shifted. Or, no, not _love_ —not if he never got to truly know her. So, not love, but, in all meanings of the word, a crush.

Over the years, Zack has had his share of infatuations. Thanks to Cloud, he now understands the difference between a crush and a love. A harbored crush is all but self-love—a vanity. You think only of how they could benefit you. But, to love another is akin to an act of service, of worship. At its purest, it is sacrificial. Possessive, too—in the way that we are possessive of our deities—and altogether _attentive_. 

Zack knew next to nothing about his past obsessions; their surface personalities appealed to him, so he toyed with the idea of dating them. In time, their visages passed from his mind as quickly as autumn decays into winter. Cloud though… Zack knows Cloud. If Cloud let him, Zack could take his life, dissect it into cross-sections, and put it back together, spreading balm between the pieces, leaving no scars.

And Cloud… Cloud knows Zack, too. 

_It does not mean anything_ , says a voice.

Zack lowers his head and closes his eyes. He breathes. He opens the door to all the thoughts he has repressed, to all the cataloged memories of veiled affections, to tense jaws and sharp tongues, to clutching fingers, craned necks, stuttered breaths, soft eyes. 

_But you haven’t seen the way he_ looks _at me_.

The voice turns thoughtful—and says nothing more.

Beside him, Aerith twitches, squirming in excitement. Zack smiles and waits for her to break, pretending as though he is still in deep thought, not to be disturbed. A full minute later, she finally blurts out, “She _is_ single though!” and proceeds to nudge Zack’s side with her elbow. It tickles, succeeding in fully drawing him out of his feigned trance. “And, Zack, _Zack_.” She gets up on her knees, crowds in close, and whispers, “ _She likes girls_.”

Zack jolts toward her, which is how they find themselves grinning awkwardly, rubbing their throbbing foreheads in disastrous synchronization. When the pain has dulled to an ache, Zack wipes off his grin, takes hold of Aerith’s shoulders, and stares her dead in the eyes. 

“Aerith, forget what I said,” he intones, squeezing her shoulders. “Make the biggest bouquet you can and pray Tifa isn’t allergic.”

Aerith sputters into laughter and forcibly pushes him away. Just as quickly, she ducks back in, interweaves their elbows, and leans them both back against the stone column. “She didn’t sneeze while she was here,” Aerith mutters and drops her head onto Zack’s shoulder.

“True.” Zack curls into her, pressing his cheek into her hair, and smiles. For once, Zack sets aside all his petty complaints and lets himself be utterly and incandescently happy for her. If anyone deserves such bliss, it is Aerith. “Just worry about the arrangement. Make it pretty.”

“Mm.” Aerith shifts, wrapping her hand around his upper arm. “Zack? You once said that Cloud liked a girl. Or that it sounded like he did. Were you talking about Tifa?”

And, just like that, Zack finds himself in the reactor core again. This time, he is not lying on the sharp stairs, reaching out for a head of soft, blond hair. He is simply stood at the bottom of the steps, watching Cloud cradle Tifa to him. For once, it does not hurt. He makes a sound of assent.

“Out of curiosity—if you’re okay with me asking—how do you know that? Did he tell you?”

“No, he didn’t,” Zack admits, hesitating. Cloud looks up at him, face carefully blank. “That, that night, I was lying on the stairs, barely conscious, when Cloud returned from fighting Sephiroth. This was before he defeated him. He ran right past me to get to Tifa. Didn’t even stop.”

“Oh.” Aerith’s voice, coming from a distance, sounds unfathomably sad. “That’s… Wait. Zack, was Tifa injured?”

“Yes.” There was blood on the ground, wasn’t there? He never bothers to picture it when he returns to this memory, dark as it was against the landing on which Tifa lay. Its coppery scent, too, was not so out of place in a room full of metal. “She and I both were.”

Aerith is silent for several beats. When she speaks, the words are soft and patient. “If you had two injured people, one a SOLDIER and one a civilian, who would you check on first?”

Zack opens his eyes. He stares at the sunlit lilies, dumbfounded. For all his training, this never once occurred to him, too aggrieved by Cloud’s actions to see the wisdom in them. Whereas Tifa had lain terrifyingly still, Zack had been conscious, struggling to rise. So, of course Cloud flew to her, regardless of the depth of his attachment to her. Anyone with a basic understanding of triage would do the same.

Admittedly, this neither confirms nor denies Cloud’s feelings for her. If anything stands as proof for the former, it was the gentle way he held Tifa in his arms—but what does that matter, if Aerith is to be believed? In truth, Cloud dealt him more hurt by running past him than he could with any rejection. And to think that there has always been a logical reason for it. Zack has carried this wound halfway across Gaia, but only now does he sense its edges coming together, stitched and bandaged. 

"I always thought he just hadn’t cared,” Zack confesses, voice breaking. 

“Well, _fuck_ ,” Aerith swears, to which Zack chokes out a laugh, delighted despite himself. “No wonder you never believed me.” She slips her hand into his and covers it with the other, squeezing. He squeezes back.

“It was a compelling argument,” he murmurs even as he holds up the pieces side by side and sees that the edges do not match. This vision of a boy who knowingly bypassed Zack to reach his love does not resemble the man who trawled the remains of a battlefield in search of potion bottles, nor does he resemble the man whose hands swiped across Zack’s torso, staunching dreamed blood. No, nor is he kin to any of the Clouds that followed. 

“So?” Aerith asks, knocking their joined hands against his thigh. “Do you believe me now?”

The voice—skeptical and protective—shakes off its banishment and resurfaces to the forefront of his mind, whispering cloying warnings.

Zack believes her, but, just as readily, he does not. Aerith would not lie about Cloud’s lack of feelings. Cloud, however, _would_ , if it were done in service to a friend. In a moment of excitement, Aerith could have blabbed, revealing that the woman she admired had, in fact, been Tifa. Then, if Cloud, self-effacing as he is, thought that he had no chance with Tifa, it would not be so out of character for him to step aside, encouraging Aerith with a placating lie. 

In this scenario, Zack is but a bystander. In this scenario, Cloud does not return his regard.

And yet… 

_Cloud_ was the one to approach Aerith in the first place. It is this detail that does not quite fit with the rest of the theory, this conversation that, in time, _led_ to Cloud’s confession. What is it that they spoke of that could have inspired it? What did he wish to discuss? Perhaps he had already picked up on Aerith’s interest and wanted to assure her… 

Groaning, Zack raises his free hand and rubs it across his face. He can only find so many answers through sole conjecture. Another in his place would not drown himself in all these possibilities, would not be so cowardly. A brave man would not bite his tongue at every opportunity. A brave man would simply step forward and _ask_. 

Zack has not felt brave since he fell to the ground atop a bloodied cliff. He himself may not have perished, but his courage did. Perhaps it is nigh time that he resurrected it.

\--- 

_Talk to him_ , Zack tells himself as he walks beside Cloud through Sector 6. 

Stalling, Zack grins as Cloud retells how Tifa legitimately tossed out a rowdy patron that night. Zack wishes he had been there to see it, and so he says as much. Eyes mischievous, Cloud wonders aloud whether Tifa would be willing to recreate it, suggesting Zack as the drunk stand-in. Zack laughs and agrees that Tifa undoubtedly would.

\---

 _Talk to him_ , Zack repeats as he claps Cloud’s shoulder joyfully. 

Zack ignores the reminder, too busy complimenting Cloud on his improved footwork. Although he is long inured to locker room dynamics and all that they entail, Zack does not join him in the washroom to rinse off the sweat. Instead, he sorts through their leftovers and slaps together a decently sized lunch for them both. When Cloud returns, Zack ducks into the washroom and leaves him to it.

\---

 _Talk to him_ , Zack commands as Cloud falls asleep mid sentence, speaking into Zack’s upper arm. 

Loath to wake his friend, Zack stares up at the ceiling and reimagines the little house his mind built. This time, it is even cozier, borrowing further inspiration from Aerith’s home. He wonders if there could be another sunlit house like it, here in Midgar. The church works for their purposes, but it lacks a kitchen, a proper washroom, privacy… 

\---

_Talk. To. Him._

“Alright, I _get_ it,” Zack snaps, clenching his hands.

Tifa, rifling through a crate by the wall of bottles behind the bar counter, startles and sends him an incredulous look. Her expression immediately shifts at whatever she sees in Zack’s, her brows furrowing in concern. 

Zack, as though freeing a hitched curtain from its bindings, relaxes his facial features in one swift sweep. His hands are slower on the uptake, but they, too, release their death grip on the edge of what he now registers as the counter. Thankfully, the wood shows no sign of breakage from his rough treatment. Tifa, of all people, should not have to deal with the aftershocks of his embarrassing internal battle against his own misgivings. 

To say that he has been losing said battle the past two days would be an understatement. Of course, Zack would only be losing to his own self; so, technically speaking, either outcome would herald a victory, but it cannot be deemed as such if the side that wins is cowardice. 

Zack blames the influence of that _voice_ , the one that sprawls atop his daring like a thief atop their haul. It attests to Cloud’s indifference and urges Zack to cast his besotted lot away. It had started out so considerate, so rational, but it has since descended into doling out routine guilt, scorning his feelings because that is what it is used to. 

In the depths of his heart, Zack knows that he veils his pain more than he professes to it, that he forsakes his well-being in lieu of caring for others’, but he has begun to understand with stinging clarity that listening to this voice’s whispers cannot be healthy. And a newer voice—counter to the other—has begun to reflect that. It grows more confident with every hour and more tender with every minute—double that when Cloud’s mouth quirks up into a smile. It coaxes and needles and encourages, persistent but not unkind. It knows nothing of guilt. It allows itself to want.

_Please talk to him?_

“Zack?” Tifa says quietly. 

Zack lifts his head, blinking out of his self-imposed stupor. _Tifa should be paid more for dealing with this shit_ , he thinks nonsensically.

“Sorry, was lost in thought for a second. I said that I can get that, if you want.” He points at the empty crate beside her. “Save you a trip to the back?”

For a moment, Tifa stares at him, calling to mind the face she wore when she and Zack first reunited. Then, she frowns and inspects the bottle in her grip almost absently before glancing back. 

“Sure?” After depositing the bottle on the back counter, she lifts the wooden crate and places it in reach of Zack, who quickly grabs it for want of something to occupy his fidgeting hands. “Just drop it off in the storage room. You can bring me the next load if you want, but no rush. I still have to sort…” Tifa trails off, muttering as she returns her attention to what Zack suspects is the near equivalent of bathtub gin. Zack, who has not had a drink in years and almost fears to, decides not to start here—even if the call of liquid courage is as enticing as siren song. 

He rises from his seat at the bar and heads toward the doorway at the back of the taproom. The corridor beyond hosts four doors—the farthest of which leads outside—and a set of stairs to the upper floor. If he recalls correctly, the nearest door, partway open, hides Seventh Heaven’s store of alcohol, so he slips inside, angling the crate to avoid catching it against the jamb.

Even though he anticipated it, Zack falters at the sight of Cloud in the storage room, the blond surrounded by columns of boxes and supplies. He does not acknowledge him, so Zack takes a beat to quietly observe him. Stood atop a step stool, he appears to be contemplating the far wall as he runs a hand along it. A hammer hangs from his pants, its claw hooked into his pocket, while a shelf leans against the stool below, waiting to be raised. Lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, Cloud might as well be cast in sunlight, his hair aflame. He is more collected here, less tense, than he had been at Hanako’s. His clothing, too, is more familiar, no longer hidden behind a monotone apron. 

Cloud looks… _good_. There is no question that he is still battling the effects of the experimentation and their ensuing flight from Shinra―his recent episode is proof of that―but he has not let that dampen his spirits. In fact, in some ways, he seems more motivated than before, carrying on out of spite. Zack is so very proud of him; he only wishes that he could be as strong.

_Don’t wish. Just be._

Without looking down, Zack places his crate on top of something right beside the door. At the click of wood against wood, Cloud glances over and zeroes in on Zack’s hands still clutching the edges of the crate. After a moment, he looks away, but not before murmuring a little greeting.

“Hey, sunshine,” Zack replies, savoring the honey-sweet taste of the nickname, having abstained from its use since the night Tifa reappeared. If Cloud notes its previous absence by its sudden return, he does not remark upon it. Zack hopes that he does not resent it.

He casts around, searching for Tifa’s shipment amid all the boxes. To the uninitiated, they all appear remarkably identical. Gambling on a hunch, he moves the empty crate he brought aside, revealing a stack of similar crates. He digs his fingers into the side of the topmost lid and opens it with a pop and the cling of a few nails scattering to the floor. 

“Aha!” Zack exclaims quietly at the rows of gleaming bottles.

“You don’t have to help all the time, you know,” Cloud mutters. Zack lifts his eyes from his haul to Cloud, who has since twisted back to frown at him. 

“I know.” With a huff, Zack lowers the crate’s lid and carefully places his hands on top of it. “But what else would I be doing? Sitting around waiting? I’d rather help.”

“I know you would.” Sighing, Cloud untwists and hops off the stool before lifting the wood shelf and climbing back up. He leans the structure against the wall above his head and inspects it, seemingly gauging where best to place it before hammering in any nails. “But you work almost every night, and you do plenty at home. You’re allowed to take breaks.”

Zack stills. It is not the grouping of words that affects him so, but the serene pronouncement of “home.” Spoken so easily and warmly, it summons his imaginings of a little house and steady, soporific breaths. From its power, Zack siphons the last bit of confidence he sought. 

“Hey, Cloud, are you interested in Tifa?”

Cloud fumbles his grip and promptly drops one side of the shelf on top of his head—and Zack is caught between the options to either panic or laugh hysterically. As Cloud swears, readjusting the shelf, Zack hurries over, his surprise bleeding into concern. 

“Sorry, sorry, bad timing,” Zack babbles as he steals the hostile shelf, lifting it from Cloud’s grasp. He stubbornly fixes his gaze on the dark wood above him, avoiding the full brunt of Cloud’s stare as his face heats in embarrassment. “Here, I got it. Hammer in a nail on one side, and we’ll straighten it after.” Zack slides his hand over, freeing the shelf’s bracket so that Cloud can reach it, and gestures to it with his chin. 

After a lengthy pause, Cloud finally moves, unthawing from whatever thoughts first froze him. He rummages in his pocket and removes a flat-head nail, tucking it between his knuckles before knocking them against the wall. Zack would ask why, but he is too occupied with fighting his flush―which only seems keen to spread―and attempting to decipher Cloud’s dramatic reaction. Had Cloud been about to turn toward him? Perhaps he had simply shifted awkwardly and… 

Cloud clears his throat, and Zack looks up at him without thinking. In turn, Cloud meets his gaze, says, “Only as a friend,” and takes Zack’s hands.

Or, not quite—regardless of what Zack’s drumming heart hoped for, Cloud only touches the backs of his hands to adjust the positioning of the shelf. His touch is efficient and brusque, but Zack’s eyelids fall shut at the feel of fingers pressing against the skin between his tendons, and his mouth parts for a moment before he can snap it closed. Then, the fingers brush away, and he is forced to swallow against the sudden dryness plaguing his throat.

Consumed by the lingering sensation, Zack all but forgets Cloud’s answer until he is jolted out of his reverie by intermittent hammering. He sneaks a peek at Cloud, who watches the nail disappearing into the wall intently. _Only as a friend_ , he said. Relieved beyond belief, Zack deflates. Aerith, then, was right. Cloud might have had reason to lie to her, but he has none now. A heartbroken Cloud, if asked, would have confided in him—thus, he never lied.

So…what now? Zack spent all of his energy preparing for this single question, uneasy at the prospect of anticipating anything beyond it. He must regroup, he decides, must arrange his chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order. He remembers imagining weeks ago how he would confess to Cloud by simply asking him out. It seemed so simple then, but so do all things when they are perceived through the barrier of impossibility. 

Cloud, on his part, does not visibly react to Zack’s pensive silence. Finished with hammering the nail into the bracket’s top aperture, he hops down and transfers the stool to Zack’s right before stepping back for a wider perspective. 

“Little lower,” he orders, and Zack complies, adjusting the shelf to his continued instructions. When Cloud is satisfied, he makes a little sound of assent and climbs up to resume his hammering. This time, he does not pause before adding a second nail to the lower aperture; that done, he flits back to Zack’s left and hammers in the final nail. Only then does Zack lower his arms, aware that he could have easily let go once the job was half done, but, well, that would have required _stepping away_.

Zack looks askance at Cloud atop the stool, but the latter’s attention is fixed on the shelf as though daring it to fall. Zack is ever sensitive to his friend’s shifts in mood, but Cloud is, in so many ways, still difficult to read. He could be chewing over Zack’s question and his ensuing nonresponse, or, just as easily, he could be checking over their handiwork. Either way, Cloud is unlikely to be forthright about it―and, if Zack himself is honest, he is not yet prepared to know―so he meanders back to the stack of crates and lifts the topmost one, hoping that it is indeed what Tifa requires. 

“Zack?”

Zack turns. Cloud, who has rotated to face him, his hand hooked into the shelf above, tilts his head. Narrows his eyes. “Are you interested in Aerith?”

Zack’s mind blanks out. Then, as it regains color, it notes Cloud’s pose, his steady gaze, his relaxed mouth, his nonchalant tone…and quickly deduces that there are no insecurities to be found in his expression, nor any manifestations of self-deprecating thoughts. Cloud is… Cloud is _teasing_ him.

 _Cloud_ knows _the answer to this question_ , he realizes giddily, awestruck.

Frozen in the spotlight, Zack hesitates to deliver his line, but he rallies when Cloud’s voice, echoing from the past, whispers it to him from the prompter’s box. Desperate to know whether this is the response _his_ Cloud wants to hear, Zack inhales and repeats, “Only as a friend.”

Cloud’s mouth curves into a smile―and Zack evaporates into nothing from the warmth of its glow. 

Yet formless and fledgling, _something_ passes between them. Zack fears to give it a voice, let alone a face, but he can hear it knocking to be allowed past the threshold. In time to its entreaties, they stand watching each other, cautious in their smiles but open in their regard. Zack has never been in this position before, with his tattered feelings on the cusp of exposure. Heady with potential, the sensation threatens to propel him toward Cloud with no concern for the consequences. 

Zack waits―for what, he cannot say. For his mind to catch up to his heart, perhaps. There are so many and yet so few words that he could utter, but none can foretell which combination will strike that smile from Cloud’s face and which will sweeten it. He does not know, after all, what lies underneath it, whether the smile is born solely of amusement. Still, would something as routine as a misunderstanding inspire so much staring, especially from Cloud?

 _I don’t think I’ve ever seen you hold eye contact this long_ , Zack thinks but a second before Cloud finally drops his gaze, his smile relaxing, and climbs down the steps.

Zack opens his mouth―not knowing what words will leave it―and clicks it shut when he hears Tifa calling for him. Cloud looks past him at the doorway, betraying nothing of his thoughts. The notion of leaving him in this mercurial moment is abhorrent, but the hint of urgency in Tifa’s voice pulls at the worn threads of Zack’s sacrificing self. So, casting Cloud an apologetic look, he readjusts his cargo and exits to the corridor and the taproom beyond. 

“Sorry, got distracted,” Zack says as he gingerly slides the crate onto the counter within reach of Tifa, who glances up from stacking glasses. “What’s up? Need another floor swept?”

“No, nothing like that.” Tifa shakes her head, her teardrop earrings jiggling with the movement. “Cloud would kill me,” she clarifies, shooting a pointed look at the doorway behind Zack. Judging by the laden silence emanating from that direction, he assumes that Cloud must have followed him.

“What, then?”

Tifa pulls the alcohol toward herself and murmurs a quick thanks before popping open the lid. “I should’ve said when you arrived, but I completely forgot. Barret wants to talk to you. He said it’s important.”

Zack squints, regretting leaving the storage room for what is clearly not an emergency. “He wants to talk to _me_? Why?”

“Oh, you know.” Tifa shrugs, seemingly too occupied with sorting the bottles to lift her head. “Better to just ask him. He should be upstairs.”

The last and only time Zack encountered Barret, the man said little to him, expressing far more with his scrutiny. Shifting in place, Zack becomes abruptly aware of the weight of the sunglasses atop his hair. Perhaps Barret wants to interrogate him after having seen his Mako eyes? Then again, would he be so obliging, asking to speak to him, if he perceived Zack as a threat? Or, not a threat―thanks to Aerith’s teasing, he is painfully aware of the unimposing cut of his figure―but a concern nevertheless. 

“It’s not anything to do with this, is it?” Zack points to his eyes, forcing Tifa to finally pay attention.

“With SOLDIER? He knows you’re not working for Shinra anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.” Tifa smiles, tilting her head to direct the expression past Zack’s shoulder. “Don’t worry: I only told Barret the bare minimum.”

“Barret not a fan of Shinra either?” Zack muses and pockets his hands, attempting to conceal his ebbing fear and wondering whether to climb those stairs as his suspicions percolate. 

What he truly wants is to return to the storage room to discover what he was so eager to confess―and to see how Cloud would have replied. And yet, just as much, Zack wishes to stay in this hopeful state a little longer, to not have to face reality if it proves parallel to his dreams, never meeting. 

As soon as Tifa turns away, Zack sneaks a peek behind him. Cloud, face carefully blank, meets Zack’s eyes almost defiantly, all hints of his previous softness gone. 

Zack sighs. His desire to wait notwithstanding, he mourns their lost moment, regretting how quickly Cloud has retreated into obscurity, his smile wiped off his face. If Zack’s remorse bleeds into his expression, then Cloud’s does not change to reflect it. Stoic as ever, Cloud looks away and steps into the taproom.

“Go ahead,” he mutters as he nearly grazes Zack, trailing past. “You still have time.”

Cloud’s voice, hushed and sighing, sends shivers up his spine. Dipped in Zack’s hope, it speaks not of indifference, but of tension―of restraint. It matches the muted murmurs of the _something_ that nearly split the door to his own self-control. 

When Zack remains in place, torn, Cloud glances over his shoulder, asking why he is wasting time with a single quirk of his brow. Biting his lip, Zack nods and turns away. If they are fated to be―if Cloud’s smiles hold more than the affection of friendship―then nothing as banal as an interruption will prevent that from coming to pass.

\---

Zack meanders up the stairs to Seventh Heaven’s upper floor, slowly pulling away from the sweet thoughts that he forces himself to leave behind. Upon reaching the landing, he catches the lilting tones of a child’s voice, no doubt belonging to Marlene, followed by Barret’s lower response. One door along the corridor stands ajar, so Zack cautiously approaches it, not wanting to interrupt.

Inside, Barret and Marlene are relaxing on the floor by a large bed, both distracted by something lying beside the girl. Zack just makes out the edge of a box of colored pencils when Barret abruptly lifts his eyes to meet his. With an internal wince, Zack belatedly raps his knuckles against the door in an attempt to not come off as a creeper. It seems to work, for Barret beckons him inside affably before glancing down at his daughter.

“Marlene, honey,” Barret says, lifting his left hand to momentarily rest it on her shoulder, “why don’t you go see if Tifa needs any help?”

“I need to finish this,” Marlene whispers from where she is lying prone, propped up by her elbows. Coming closer, Zack confirms that she is working on a drawing of what appears to be some kind of yellow bird. A…chocobo? In defense of her artistic abilities, he admits that her depiction is better than his late omelette concoction. 

Zack shoots an amused look at Barret’s fondly exasperated one, deliberating. While he does not mind stalling the forthcoming conversation, he only has so much time left before he has to leave for his shift. Thus, Marlene must be lured away. Staring at the drawing, he lets loose a slow and mischievous smile as inspiration strikes. He crouches beside her, leaving a couple polite feet between them. 

“Hiya, Marlene.”

Pausing mid stroke, Marlene side-eyes him and, much to his delight, murmurs, “Hi, Zack.”

“You like chocobos, huh?” he asks, to which Marlene offers a shy nod. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor, then. You see, I lost mine, and I was hoping you’d help me catch him.”

Dropping her yellow pencil, Marlene sits up and watches him with a level of graveness that can only be expressed by one so young. “You lost your chocobo?”

“That’s right. When I’m standing, he’s about this tall―” Zack raises a flat palm, letting it hover by his mouth. “―and has eyes like mine. And yellow hair, short and spiky. Have you seen him?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Marlene confirms, smiling as she clues in on the joke, “I have!”

“Oh, what a relief!” Zack exclaims, closing his eyes and splaying a hand on his chest to play up the act for her benefit. “Can you catch him for me? I’d do it myself, but I’m not as fast as I used to be.”

“I can do that,” the girl agrees excitedly before springing to her feet and shuffling out the door. Zack watches her go, smiling in her wake and hoping that Cloud will not mind the disruption too much. 

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Barret asks, voice gruff with what must be concern.

Raising his brows, Zack turns to look at Barret, who stands and walks over to close the door. “You mean sending her to Cloud?” Zack rises from his crouch, glances around the sparse room―noting the large bed, a much smaller one, and a desk covered in drawings―and decides to remain standing. “I know the impression he makes, but he’s a lot sweeter than he pretends to be. She’ll be fine.” 

Barret turns back, crosses his arms―displaying his gun prosthetic almost absently, it seems―and snorts. “And when she brings your ‘chocobo’ back here?” 

“Cloud knows we’re talking. He won’t let her,” Zack replies, hooking his thumbs into his pockets to prevent himself from fiddling with his sunglasses. “I don’t have a lot of time, but what _did_ you want to talk about?”

“An offer.” Barret moves from the door and stops before Zack, leaving a clear route to the exit, which does much to lull the latter’s disquiet. “We’re looking to recruit some extra muscle to our cause,” Barret explains, imparting the last word with a particular level of nonchalance, as though the C remains uncapitalized, belying its significance. “Interested?”

 _Cause. Recruit. Extra muscle―cannon fodder, he means._

Zack understands, now, why Tifa waffled when he asked what Barret does for a living. A “cause” does not, on its own, convey militancy, but it does when spoken alongside the rest of Barret’s words. They propel Zack toward a slew of memories tainted with the clarity of hindsight. Would Zack, young and impressionable, have ever thought to join the military had it not been for the recruitment posters plastered all over town? Would he have so senselessly carried out Shinra’s orders had he not been brainwashed with promises of greatness? Would he have so easily signed up to die?

“No offense, but I don’t want to be recruited into anything right now.” _Or ever_ , Zack adds to himself.

Barret huffs and mutters, “Shoulda figured,” before his demeanor grows far less gracious, firming into discontent. “How about hired? We’d pay good money.”

Zack, already preparing to leave, hesitates. Thanks to Tifa’s generosity, Cloud now makes a decent wage, so, financially, they are doing passably well. The promise of extra income, however, is tempting, particularly after spending so many nights mired in dreams of cozy rooms―rooms which, if they exist, would not come cheap. And yet, the gil, regardless of the amount, would mean nothing if the job itself turned his stomach.

So, while another would inquire as to the compensation, Zack asks, “What’s the cause?”

As quickly as it settled, Barret’s grimness dissipates, and he uncrosses his arms, settling one on his hip. “Saving our dying planet.”

“Sorry, what? Dying?” Zack repeats, belatedly remembering to keep his volume in check. “What do you mean, _dying_?”

“Dying,” Barret confirms, unmoved by the incredulity of Zack’s reaction, and glowers. “Do you know what Mako is?”

 _Does_ he? Zack has wondered this before. He might as well be a student unprepared for class, having left the chapter unread and his homework unfinished. Even as an ex-SOLDIER, he knows little―if what he knows is actually true―but that says more about Shinra than it does about him. However, what Mako has to do with the state of the planet is beyond him. 

“I don’t,” Zack admits, ashamed. “I mean, I know Shinra uses it to generate electricity, but I don’t know _what_ it is. I…do know it can be toxic, especially in large quantities. In large doses,” he amends, thinking of Cloud’s glazed eyes.

“ _No!_ ” Barret shouts, causing Zack to jolt. “Mako is only toxic in the hands of _Shinra_. Mako is not just energy―it’s the lifeblood of our planet. It’s what keeps every living thing, including people, alive. But Shinra’s using it to power their precious city, and they won’t stop until there’s a reactor in every town, draining the land of life. Yes, _draining_ it,” Barret emphasizes when Zack frowns in confusion. “Haven’t you seen the dead land around Midgar? Do you think it’s always been like that? That’s what the world looks like without Mako.”

“I never thought about it,” Zack confesses, recalling the gray expanse where he almost lost his life. He has not seen its like anywhere else. None of the towns he visited that had reactors had shown such signs of decay, so could there be another explanation for the arid land? “I’ve been to a few reactor towns. They didn’t look like that at all.”

“It’s only a matter of time before they do,” Barret intones, shaking his head. “Most towns only have one reactor; Midgar has many. As long as the reactors are running, Gaia won’t heal. Shinra must be stopped.” 

Zack hums, lowering his head in thought. Something does not quite fit. How can Mako be what feeds the planet if it just as equally poisoned Cloud? And what of the experimental subjects they found in the Nibelheim reactor? Those people floating in all that green, deformed into abominations… Perhaps it _was_ a mere matter of dosage―for even a remedy that heals can harm in vast amounts―and a sensitivity to Mako in Cloud’s case.

Or, was there another factor to Cloud’s symptoms? Something that…Genesis spoke of. Why is it so _difficult_ to remember? _Cells_. He spoke of cells… Genesis. Gen… Je― 

“Well?” Barret interrupts, breaking Zack’s concentration. “What do you say?”

“It’s a lot to think about,” Zack offers, stalling. Regardless of whether what Barret claims is true, there is no question that Shinra’s actions have long ago revealed intentions that are either self-serving, cruel, or steeped in carelessness. If there ever was a cause Zack could be tempted to join, then thwarting Shinra would be it. 

The justification, however, does nothing to ease the dread that has begun to creep up Zack’s spine. “You said they must be stopped,” he says, keeping his tone light. “How are you gonna do that?”

Barret’s smile flits into place and disappears just as quickly. “Let’s just say my team will make sure that Shinra won’t be able to get Mako in the first place.”

For an equivocation, it is far from subtle. There are few ways to suspend the acquisition of Mako―and even fewer if one does not have access to Shinra’s headquarters―but the most straightforward is to strike at the source. 

“You’re…planning to attack a reactor,” Zack states. Barret, who will either die trying on this suicide mission or condemn thousands of people to darkness, does not confirm nor deny the accusation. “That’s―” Zack shakes his head. “That’s a bad idea.” 

“Shinra can’t kill the planet if it can’t drain its life!” Barret shouts and promptly winces. He eyes the closed door and waits a tense moment before refocusing his ire on Zack. “I’d say it’ll work.”

“I mean, yeah, I guess it might work if you succeed, but what about the problems it’d cause?” Zack lifts his hands in entreaty, imagining the lights under the Plate going off one by one, leaving him in eternal night. “So many people depend on those reactors. You would just be hurting _them_. Sure, Shinra has backup generators above the Plate, but I wouldn’t trust it to care about anyone but itself. Maybe the people would get mad and fight back,” Zack allows, softening his tone at the visible conflict on Barret’s face, “but I think they’d just be scared.” 

“You think I didn’t think about this when we planned this?” Barret drops his head, frowning at the wooden floor. He is silent for several moments, during which Zack struggles not to fidget. “The sacrifice,” he finally says, “would be worth it to save Gaia.”

Zack sighs. A part of him, the one that detests Shinra and all that it stands for, wants to agree, but the part that yearns to fight for and protect the people, balks in protest. Besides, _would_ destroying the reactors work? Hell, would Barret and his team even be capable of succeeding at such a venture? If they are looking to hire mercenaries, then they must be few in number.

Zack cannot help but feel that there must be a smarter way to go about this, even if said way is not easier. There are plenty of people, for example, who lost their trust in Shinra. Genesis, Sephiroth, Angeal… Tseng himself, _the leader of the Turks_ , admitted to having misgivings about his employer. Surely there must be more whose faith wavers―ones besides those who are dead, that is. Wouldn’t someone in a position of power have more sway over Shinra’s dealings?

“If you really wanted to take Shinra down,” Zack hedges, his words slowly dripping off his tongue, “you’d have to do it from the inside.” He looks away, fixing his gaze on a window on the far wall, its panes showcasing the gloom beyond. “Years ago, SOLDIER almost fell apart when many of their Firsts defected. If they hadn’t… Maybe that’s the mistake they made. Maybe, maybe they should have stayed and done something and not―” Zack grits his teeth. “― _abandoned_ those who didn’t know any better.”

“You were a SOLDIER,” Barret says thoughtfully. “A First?”

“I don’t need the reminder, thanks,” Zack mutters, crossing his arms. 

“And you’re a deserter,” Barret continues, excitement trickling into his tone. “A SOLDIER wouldn’t just leave Shinra―not without a good reason―so you must have a score to settle! Come on, this is your opportunity! Help the planet, help yourself.”

Zack closes his eyes and imagines agreeing to the offer. He thinks of Angeal, dead by Zack’s hand, but led to such an end by Shinra’s. He thinks of Genesis, degrading and seeking to enact retribution. He thinks of Sephiroth, driven to madness by whatever he found in the records below the mansion, exacting his revenge on countless innocents. 

Finally, Zack thinks of Cloud. In the vision, he does not lie tucked into Zack’s side, unresponsive; instead, Cloud grabs his hand and pulls him toward his back, sighing as Zack shifts to slip an arm across his torso. Zack thinks of Cloud cooking, of training, of taking his life back one undisturbed sleep at a time. He thinks of Cloud’s quiet joy, his dry remarks, his kind reprimands, and his sunshine smiles. He imagines a timeline wherein these died with Cloud and knows that, were Barret to ask him then, Zack would be spearheading the operation, even if the mission were to end in his own demise. 

Cloud, however, is not dead, and neither is he. Zack would prefer to keep it that way.

“You’re right, I do have a score to settle. Shinra took away almost everything from me.” Dropping his arms, Zack opens his eyes and meets Barret’s victorious smile head-on. “But it didn’t manage to take _everything_. If Shinra finds out I’m still alive, it might try to finish what it started. I’m not gonna risk what I have―” _Won’t risk_ him _._ “―for revenge.”

Barret’s face falls. Shaking his head, he steps away and sits on the larger bed, leaning his left arm against the covers and plonking his gun prosthetic on top of his knee. Zack’s heart goes out to him. If the planet truly is dying, then he has a Sisyphean task ahead of him.

“I’m sorry,” Zack offers. “I sympathize―I honestly do―but I can’t help you. Not like this. And I’m guessing I can’t stop you either.” When Barret remains silent, staring directly at him, Zack sighs and messes with his hair, mentally preparing himself for the long dark ahead. No doubt that the monsters hiding in the slums will venture forth from their dens, drawn by the downed reactors. 

Barret must be branding him a coward, but Zack finds that he does not mind. The time for reckless heroism has long passed―Zack just wants to live his life, undisturbed and unafraid. 

He dithers, wondering if there is anything he could say that would assuage Barret’s disappointment. After all, telling Barret that he only halfway supports him in spirit would probably be as helpful as a slap to the face. Giving up, Zack dips his head in a vague farewell and turns to leave.

“ _Selfish_ ,” Barret spits out quietly just as his fingers curl around the metal handle. Zack stills, eyes fixed on the door ahead, and sets his jaw.

“The planet won’t save itself,” Barret continues, voice low and menacing. “If no one does anything, there won’t be a safe place left in this world. And then what will you do?”

Zack does not answer. He pushes down on the handle and exits, gently pushing the door mostly closed behind him without looking back. He walks down the corridor slowly, focusing on his feet. The more distance he puts between himself and Barret, the closer does the fluttering fear Barret dredged up settle against Zack’s skin. He has not felt this flighty since Tseng paid him a visit all those weeks ago. Back then, he had scrapped the impulse to move sectors, to run, but it returns now, nudging him in earnest.

Perhaps they _should_ move, find a place that Shinra would not know to associate with him. Ideally, they should leave Midgar altogether, but their savings are yet growing, and it is likely too early to risk the hope that Shinra will not hunt them if they are spotted living in some backwater town. It might yet be safer to remain in Midgar, if somewhere other than the church. 

Still pondering, Zack hops off the last step and meanders into the taproom, which is empty of anyone save for Tifa giving the tables one last scrub. “Hey,” Zack greets, grinning to combat the anxiety still pulling at him. “Where’s Cloud?”

Tifa chuckles. “Last I saw, he was giving chocobo rides.”

“He’s going to kill me,” Zack jokes, his heart melting at the mental image. Although he has never seen Cloud interacting with children, he did not doubt whether Cloud would indulge Marlene. If Cloud can put up with Zack’s antics, then a child’s surely would not faze him.

“They’re outside,” Tifa says cheerfully, “if you want to escape before they return.”

“Nah, Cloud wouldn’t kill me in front of a kid,” Zack murmurs, his attention drifting as he stares at her. Tifa… She would have moved here from Nibelheim. Out of everyone he knows, she must be the best to ask whether the slums have anything resembling real estate, or if the people down here have their own system for finding homes. “Say, Tifa…do you know how one would go about renting a room or something under the Plate?”

Pausing in her work, Tifa lifts her head to reveal a scrunched-up face. “Zack, don’t you work at the Honey Bee?”

“Not, not renting by the _hour_!” Zack sputters, waving his hands dramatically. “Just, normal! Normal renting!”

Tifa snorts out a laugh and quickly covers her mouth. “ _Sorry_ ,” she blurts, sounding not at all sorry, not even in the face of Zack’s pout. He can already predict her joining Aerith and Cloud’s club wherein they trade strategies on how to best tease him.

“I couldn’t help it,” Tifa says between chuckles before visibly composing herself. “Okay, renting, you said? Why would you want to move out of the church? It’s free.”

“That’s true.” The church, though not inconspicuous, does have the kindest landlord in all of Gaia. And, moreover, didn’t he promise to protect Aerith in case Tseng is forced to break their truce? Zack can hardly do that if he is not around. “I guess I’m only considering it,” he admits, backtracking. “Just, you know, a kitchen would be nice.”

Tifa hums, tapping a finger against the nearby table. “Well, Zangan was the one who initially figured out lodging for us, but I think there’s a network for this sort of thing. If you’re serious about it, you’ll have to ask around. Not that I think there’ll be many options. Oh!” Tifa glances up at the ceiling, smiling. “You two are welcome to the spare room upstairs, if you like.”

Zack hides his wince, not wishing to offend her hospitality when Barret’s plans are what inspired this line of questioning in the first place. “Thanks, that’s nice of you, but I was thinking something more, um, private? More―” 

“Zack!”

Zack falters upon hearing his name called with such fervor and swings his head around toward the doorway. Marlene beams at him from where she rests on Cloud’s back, holding onto his neck while he supports her rear. Zack shifts in place, feeling caught. Had these two been in the back of the bar this whole time, or did Zack simply not register the back door opening just now?

“Zack!” Marlene repeats. “I found your chocobo!”

“Kweh,” Cloud deadpans.

A hysterical laugh escapes Zack before he can wrangle it back. Cloud shoots him a glare―and abruptly drops it in favor of a wink and a smirk. As Zack stares back, mind fuzzy with static, the smirk evens out into a smile. Well, if Cloud took any offense to being compared to a chocobo, then he has at least taken it in stride. 

“So you did,” Zack agrees, clearing his throat as he shifts his gaze to Marlene. “Good job, Marlene! Thank you.”

The girl, obviously pleased, nods and ducks her head into Cloud’s shoulder, prompting the blond to briefly side-eye her with frank curiosity. “Oddly, I haven’t been able to check my watch in a while,” Cloud remarks flatly, failing to hide his amusement, “but I’m pretty sure you should get going, Zack.”

Zack swears, Tifa sighs, and Marlene pokes her head up, tilting it in wonder at the unfamiliar word. Wincing, Zack jogs sideways toward the front door, nearly knocking into several chairs. 

“Sorry, Tifa,” Zack apologizes, waving. “I’ll pick you up later, sunshine!”

As Zack rushes out the door, Cloud’s matter-of-fact voice drifts after him, admitting, “Marlene’s already heard worse from me,” but Zack barely registers it. 

For all that Zack’s departure is necessary, it tears at his heart, cleaving it into two warm, pulsing chunks. The smaller piece Zack leaves with Cloud, keeping the larger only so that he retains the strength to live apart from the other. Zack cannot say whether Cloud will accept it, but the radiance of his smiles buoy him. 

The _something_ knocks. 

\---

The chamber is dark, touched only by a ray of lantern light edging in from the nave, but Zack, relying on muscle memory, could carry out this nightly ritual with his eyes closed. He kneels and runs his fingers against the floor until he finds the slightly raised edge of the loose floorboard. Digging in, he raises the panel to reveal their humble stash of treasures, the items practically invisible in the gloom. Only the Buster Sword, the pride of their collection, manages to catch a gleam of the faint light. Zack removes it reverently from the hiding place and sets it aside before turning to replace the board.

Just then, a shadow blocks the light from the door and calls out, “Hold on. I want to get something.”

Surprised, Zack sits upright, craning his head back. “Have at it.” Abandoning the board, he watches the familiar shadow wander closer. 

Silhouetted against the light, Cloud’s face remains dark and unreadable, but Zack already knows what he will find there: a veil. 

Although they shared _something_ , some hint of understanding, this past afternoon, Cloud has not yet acknowledged it, seemingly determined to pretend as though it never happened. Even on their journey home from the bar, he had been distant, rarely replying to Zack’s routine prods. He had not even asked what Barret had wanted to discuss, forcing Zack to bring it up himself, the latter paraphrasing―and redacting―the conversation. 

Normally, this is where Zack would fall into old patterns, repeating a mantra of despair under his breath, but he has since stopped listening to these laments in favor of simply looking. For all that Cloud _appears_ unmoved, he is _not_ unaffected. His portrayal of normalcy is too careful, too cultivated―and Zack, intimately familiar with this act, _sees_ it. 

Cloud is not indifferent―he is _thinking_ , and he surely requires the space to do so. Zack can only hang back and wait, regardless of the outcome. After all, there is no turning back now. Whatever they shared today has already taken root in the foundations of their relationship. He only hopes that it will nurture, rather than poison, the soil. 

In the gloom, Cloud’s glowing eyes flick up at him momentarily as he crouches and reaches into the crawl space. Zack raises his brows when he parses the outline of the object Cloud unearths, but he does not comment, moving to retrieve the sword as the blond returns to the nave.

Itching with interest, Zack follows him, only to find that Cloud has settled into one of the empty pews, having upended the contents of the bag he grabbed onto the wood. As Zack approaches, Cloud pivots to the side, tucking a leg underneath himself, and begins to sort the heap of gil. 

Zack sits on the floor and crosses his legs, resting the sword beside himself. He props his chin on the edge of the seat, tracking Cloud’s hands as they group the various bills and coins into tidy piles. “Are you being blackmailed?” 

Frowning, Cloud shrugs. “Yeah, Tifa threatened to spill my secrets.”

Zack stifles a yawn as the dancing gil threatens to hypnotize him. “Her bar not doing too good, I take it?”

“Nah, she’s just being greedy.” Cloud shakes his head, fingering through a stack of bills. “I’m just taking stock. We haven’t done that in a while. Now, be quiet while I count.”

Curiosity sated, Zack hums and closes his eyes, too lazy to move his head. The shuffle of paper drops off for a moment before resuming its gentle rhythm, this time with an added undertone of metal. 

Zack sighs quietly at the sound of clinking. They certainly could have used the money Barret offered him. Still, they are not so bad off, are they? Besides, if they cannot yet leave Midgar, then they could work with what they have available. Zack could rustle up a hot plate from somewhere, acquire a few cooking pots, even just so they would not have to impose on Elmyra every time they wanted to cook. Hell, Zack could even salvage some wood and try constructing some basic furniture: a kitchen table, a shelf, a chair or four… He did manage to build Aerith’s flower cart, after all, and it is still in working condition. They could…make a proper life here, the two of them. If Cloud wanted. 

Perhaps it pales in comparison to his dream of a quiet little house far from Midgar’s shadow, but does Zack dream of a home, or does he dream of what resides within it? 

A hand skates across the wood bench, gathering the piles into one. Zack half listens as the gil returns to its bag, too preoccupied with layering renovation plans atop the dilapidated church to be knocked out of his reverie. He finally stirs when a lone finger pokes his temple, retreating as quickly as it appeared.

Zack slits open his eyes to a sour-looking Cloud. “Are we rich yet?” he asks sleepily.

“Still poor,” Cloud admits, holding the bag of gil in his lap. “But we’re getting there.” Scowling, he shifts and leans back against the pew to glower at the ceiling. “I should have negotiated with Hanako for more. Or found a job earlier.”

Yawning, Zack slides his arms onto the pew and slips his hands underneath his chin. “Mm, why are you suddenly thinking about this? Is it because I didn’t take Barret’s job offer?” he asks, to which Cloud bites his lip. “Sorry―I didn’t mean to make you worry. I refused it _because_ we can afford to. Among other reasons.” _Other, more pertinent reasons._

Cloud does not respond. The longer he stares off into the distance, the more his expression darkens, eyes fixed on the nave’s shadowed ceiling. 

“ _Hey_. Don’t feel guilty for the job thing.” Zack grasps Cloud’s knee, shaking it from side to side before releasing it. “I was the one who asked you to wait while we figured out if you were still losing time, remember?”

“ _Zack_ ―” Cloud rolls his head toward him, glaring. “―stop trying to get me to blame you for shit that isn’t your fault.” 

Zack grins, delighted despite himself. So much for taking pride in finally recognizing the toxicity of the voice that has haunted him these past months. He should have just been listening to Cloud. _He_ would have subdued its circuitous logic long ago.

“Sorry. Bad habit.” Zack tilts his head playfully, only for his errant lock of hair to fall across his eye. He blows at it in annoyance, but fails to dislodge it. 

Cloud rolls his eyes and reaches out―and Zack inhales sharply as the hand flicks the hair away, only to still by his face. Its fingers twitch, stroking the air. Zack waits, daring it to be as brazen as he wishes he could be. As though heeding him, the hand makes to move forward…and promptly falters, scurrying away to clutch at the bag of gil. 

Once, Zack would have fallen apart in dismay at the rescinded gesture. Now, he lifts his head, props it on a raised forearm, and stares. Cloud, his mouth taut and gaze averted, ignores him. And continues to ignore him, even as Zack stares and stares, joy tingeing his lips. 

Cloud does not easily reach out to Zack. His touches, albeit rare, are always timid, fleeting things, often hidden underneath a show of nonchalance: a touch to the arm, a nudge of the shoulder, the occasional embrace… Their friendly manner would not welcome a cheek caress into their fold. Anything as bold as that would be restricted to the bed in the corner, the one place where Cloud can bury his nightmares within Zack’s arms without reprimand, where Zack can…put his mouth to Cloud’s skin without him flinching away.

Perched atop the pew, Cloud looks askance at him and, seemingly unable to help it, smiles.

 _I’m an idiot_ , Zack thinks, grinning, _but I hope it doesn’t stop you liking me._

Lowering his gaze, Cloud untucks his leg from underneath him and hugs it to his chest, interlocking his fingers across the ankle. “You were right about the sleepwalking, so don’t you dare feel guilty about that,” Cloud mutters, picking up the threads to their conversation. “Not that we ever figured out why it’s happening. It can’t be the Mako, right? Mako isn’t poison…” 

Zack blinks, surprised that Barret’s words are coming out of Cloud’s mouth. Admittedly, Barret himself must have learned the truth about Mako from somewhere, so perhaps _Zack_ is the one out of the loop. “You’re right. It might not be the Mako. I’ve been thinking about this, and I have a… I don’t even think I can call it a hunch―it’s barely anything―but when we were on the run, Genesis told me something about you, about your cells. But I―” Zack shakes his head, scowling. “―don’t remember what. And I don’t know _why_.” 

Cloud tips his mouth against his knee and furrows his brows. “I don’t remember everything that happened to us, not even the things I was awake for,” he murmurs into the fabric of his pants, oblivious to the mournful look Zack sends his way. “I talked to Aerith about it once. She said it’s normal to sometimes forget things th-that are painful. Or parts of those things. That it’s our brains trying to protect us from bad memories. Maybe that’s why you don’t remember.”

“Great,” Zack bites out, frowning down at himself. “Thanks, brain, but that doesn’t help us very much.”

Cloud huffs, lifting his head to meet Zack’s eyes. “Stop being so mean to it. It’s doing its best.”

“Oh, _thanks_.”

“I’m serious,” Cloud asserts. “You think I’d be alive right now if it wasn’t?” Zack shrugs, grimacing at the mixture of pride and embarrassment roiling in his stomach, to which Cloud shakes his head minutely. “Maybe you’ll remember what Genesis said, maybe you won’t. I don’t know. Maybe everything―” Cloud lifts a hand, waving it to encompass the room. “―will go to shit. It doesn’t matter. I know you’ll be there for me when it does.”

Zack cannot help it: he gapes, staring with reckless abandon in the face of Cloud’s raw honesty. “It’s, uh, p-pretty hard to get rid of me, huh?” he finally manages, failing to hide the strain in his tone. For all that Cloud is shy in granting physical affections, he is usually even less forthcoming with his words. To hear them now leaves Zack contrarily quenched and thirsty for more, a bottomless well full of churning ardor. 

“I never said I wanted to. After all―” Expressionless, Cloud lifts the bag of gil and shifts it within his grasp. “―you bring in so much money.” 

Zack erupts into laughter, trembling with unused adrenaline. He could have sworn that Cloud intended to navigate them toward their interrupted conversation in the bar, but the playful backstroke into familiar waters, though sudden, is not unexpected. If Cloud has a daily quota for candid, heartfelt remarks, then he has already filled it thrice over. Mentally shaking himself, Zack squeezes his sodden heart and leaves it out to dry. 

“How much is in there, then?”

“A little under five thousand,” Cloud admits, glancing down at the bag speculatively.

“That’s―” Zack parts his mouth. He admittedly grew lax in tracking their savings ever since he was hired at the Honey Bee, so it is no wonder that the sum compounded behind his back, but _five thousand_? In the language of the slums, they are not poor at all; not rich, certainly, but not poor. With a chunk of that, they could fix up the church a fraction more, render it more habitable, even homey. The rest they could squirrel away, saving it for when they finally escape this godsforsaken city.

“That’s not bad at all,” Zack comments after shelving away his fervent plans for later. “Why are you worried, then, sunshine?”

Cloud’s fingers, interlocked across his ankle, clench before relaxing. “Not worried, just… Wasn’t Barret offering a lot?”

Zack narrows his eyes, tracking Cloud’s tense frame. After deliberating for a moment, he stretches out from the floor and plops down beside him, leaving a couple inches of space between them. Without pause, Cloud scoots in to press against him, producing a line of warmth along their sides, and drops his head onto Zack’s shoulder. Smiling, Zack inclines his own, but only just, not daring to tip it against Cloud’s. Better, after all, to encourage Cloud to set the pace, as well as the tone. 

“Barret didn’t tell me how much he’d pay,” Zack says, “but I don’t care about the gil. The job itself isn’t worth it. There were too many reasons to say no.”

“Shinra tried to kill you,” Cloud murmurs. Frowning, Zack tilts forward, attempting to catch a glimpse of his face. “That’s a good reason to say yes.”

“Uh, that’s a good reason to let them keep thinking I’m _dead_. Cloud, can you imagine what’d happen if Shinra found out I’m alive?” Zack struggles not to react as a hand sneaks in and grasps his forearm, its fingers curling. “I’m not exactly inconspicuous. What if a SOLDIER saw my face? They’d recognize me in a second.”

For a time, Cloud does not respond, seemingly lost in thought as his thumb redraws a line against Zack’s skin. Smiling, Zack shuts his eyes to better appreciate the gentle motion. What would Cloud do, he wonders, if he were to reach out and place his hand atop his?

“It’s been years since Nibelheim. Shinra probably buried us as soon as we went ‘MIA,’” Cloud finally says, hesitant. “But I guess you’re not someone people just forget,” he adds, the sudden fondness in his voice recapturing Zack’s wide-eyed attention. “You had a fan club among the soldiers, did you know?”

Zack flushes, as affected by the notion of being remembered as he is by how Cloud phrases it. “Yeah, I heard about that. Were you a member?”

“What if you hid your face?” Cloud suggests loudly, paying no mind to Zack’s gleeful grin. “You could wear a helmet.”

Zack laughs at the image of stuffing his mane of hair into one of those dinky Shinra helmets. The poor visibility on those alone would almost guarantee a swift death. “You sound like you _want_ me to risk my life.”

“No, I―” Cloud lifts his head from Zack’s shoulder, shaking it. “Never mind. Ignore me.” 

“Kinda hard to ignore my only roommate,” Zack teases, nudging Cloud’s raised knee with his captured arm, to which the blond grunts. Joking aside, it _is_ odd that Cloud has fixated on the subject of income so steadfastly. Is he truly so concerned about it that he would entertain such a dangerous idea as Barret’s? Perhaps it is just the product of misplaced anxiety. If Zack were to distract him… 

“Yeah, yeah,” Cloud mutters, bumping Zack’s shoulder in recompense, and sighs. “It’s late. We should sleep.”

“Mm. Say, sunshine,” Zack drawls, formulating a plan as he speaks, “you have the day off tomorrow, right? Do you want to have dinner together? I could move my shift to another night. Maybe beg Elmyra to loan us her kitchen again.” When Cloud’s fingers, fidgeting against Zack’s skin, pause, he quickly adds, “I could cook this time! If you don’t mind something simple.” 

_I wonder if Aerith knows how to make rice look romantic._

“That does sound good,” Cloud says, sighing, “but I promised Tifa I’d help her with some stock that’s arriving late tomorrow. I was gonna leave after you did.” He leans forward, untangling his arm and leaving Zack’s side bereft of warmth. “Sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry. I’m sure Tifa appreciates it,” Zack assures, not quite able to hide his disappointment, especially as the dinner would have been for Cloud’s benefit. Well, maybe a few rounds of intensive sword training tomorrow will be enough to distract him from his worries. “Will you be done by eleven, like usual? I can still grab you after work.”

Cloud rises from the pew and meanders toward the washroom, pouch of gil in hand. “Nah, don’t bother. Tifa said these guys always take forever to deliver. It’ll probably go until later.”

“Hey, I don’t mind waiting. I can even help you with the boxes!” Zack exclaims, only for Cloud to stop in his tracks and glare from the doorway. “Ah, right. No helping?”

“No helping,” Cloud confirms. “Go home after work. For once, _take a break_.” 

Zack frowns, standing from the pew. Not ten minutes ago, Cloud was glorifying Zack’s efforts to track his episodic sleepwalking, only to now brush off the danger of walking alone? “What if you lose time?”

“Fine, I’ll ask Tifa to walk me home,” Cloud amends, shrugging. “Don’t worry,” he adds before Zack can reply, “I’ll be safe.” With that, he disappears behind the washroom door. 

_There won’t be a safe place left in this world._

Zack shudders. Mentally shaking himself, he leans over to retrieve the sword and then walks to their bed, grabbing the lantern on the way. He deposits both on the floor before slipping under the covers, but, contrary to habit, he lies down on the outer side of the bed, cradling the back of his head in a show of unconcern. 

When Cloud reenters the nave, he zeroes in on Zack, frowns, and promptly marches over. “What is this? You know I prefer the left,” Cloud accuses, crossing his arms. “I _always_ sleep on the left.”

Zack innocently raises his brows, pouting. “You do, but I _also_ prefer the left. I sleep better on my right. The nice thing to do would be to switch off.” Zack, in truth, neither prefers the left nor sleeps better on his right side. He could sleep upside down, if the situation warranted it. What he _does_ prefer, especially with Barret’s words haunting him, is Cloud sandwiched between him and a stone wall. 

“Well, I’m not nice, you liar,” Cloud deadpans. “More than half the time, you sleep on your back. If you had a side preference, you’d’ve told me by now.”

“ _I’m_ nice,” Zack protests. “Maybe I’ve just been letting you take the left this whole time?”

Snorting, Cloud crouches by the bedside. “The sad thing is that you would.” He turns away, missing Zack’s affronted look, and switches off the light, plunging the nave into the deep of night. As Zack blinks, adjusting his eyesight, Cloud hops over him to claim the empty side of the bed. 

“You better appreciate this,” Cloud mutters as he faces the wall, settling in under the blanket. Zack scoots in behind him and, wary, caresses his knuckles against his lower back, silently pleading. After a fraught moment, Cloud sighs and pointedly lifts his arm. Wasting no time, Zack darts his own underneath it and tucks his face into Cloud’s nape, letting out a little sound of satisfaction.

“I don’t like being against the wall. Makes me feel trapped,” Cloud grumbles, transmuting Zack’s happiness into instant regret. “What if we move the bed to the other corner?”

Zack narrows his eyes, deciding how best to remedy the situation. There is no need to move the bed if his issue with their arrangement will follow them hence; thus, neither location would satisfy both of their needs. So, which wins out here: Zack’s paranoia or Cloud’s comfort? How is this even a question he needs to ask? 

Grinning, Zack burrows his other arm underneath Cloud, locks his wrists together, and cranes his mouth toward the blond’s ear. “You’re right,” he whispers, “I _am_ a liar,” and rolls them over in one fell swoop, ignoring Cloud’s yelping protest. Zack huffs out a laugh as he is lightly elbowed in the torso, taking it in stride as they readjust to their regular cuddling position. 

“The hell was that about?” Cloud lifts his side, letting Zack free his squished arm. “Why’d you lie? Or was _that_ a lie just now?”

“I don’t…actually have a sleeping preference, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Why, then?” Cloud demands, exasperated.

Zack swallows nervously, debating how much to reveal. The hovering threat of Barret’s warning is too complicated to explain on the cusp of sleep, but what of his inherent motivations? His compulsion to protect? Is there much sense left in keeping them muted? His heart, after all, has long since unraveled its bindings, leaving Zack exposed to Cloud’s shrewd scrutiny. 

“That’s how we used to sleep,” Zack confesses. “While on the run. You’d be by a, a cliff or a log, and I’d face you while keeping the sword on my back. I figured―” _If a sniper found us, they’d hit me instead of you._ “―that was the best way to sleep. When it wasn’t safe.”

“You don’t feel safe?”

Zack shrugs, for that is the closest to an honest answer he can offer.

Cloud is silent for a long time, granting no insight into his thoughts, so Zack settles in to wait, absentmindedly playing with the fabric beneath his right hand. Finally, Cloud says a quiet “look” and outstretches an arm. The Buster Sword rises from the floor, neither trembling nor hesitating, wielded by a steady hand. “From this position, we can both reach it.” Cloud glances over his shoulder, Mako eyes easily finding Zack’s. “You’re not alone this time.”

“No,” Zack agrees, breathless. “I guess not.” 

Nodding, Cloud lowers the sword and relaxes back into their embrace, pinning Zack’s arm with his own. “ _This_ is the safest way to sleep,” he murmurs. Then, exhaustion pulling at his words, he adds, “I can take care of myself, Zack.”

 _Doesn’t stop me wanting to take care of you_ , Zack thinks as he places his mouth against the collar of Cloud’s shirt. Listening to their deepening breaths, he wonders whether saying this thought out loud would elicit yet another glare, whether Cloud would misunderstand his desire to protect as a declaration of Cloud’s weakness. How can Zack explain his own selfishness, that preserving Cloud is simply a way to preserve himself?

Zack sighs quietly. Regardless of what he might or might not feel, Cloud must resent Zack’s tendency to hover. He so soundly, so decidedly, refused Zack’s offer to escort him tomorrow night, even though he had been the one to suggest their joint walks in the first place. What other reason would he have to so suddenly change his mind?

A strangeness flutters its way into Zack’s midsection, unsettled and flighty. It perches upon his diaphragm and starts pecking and fiddling, chittering in a language Zack cannot parse. He tries to wave it away, but it alights once more.

Zack shuts his eyes and buries his face into Cloud’s back. The feeling of wrongness does not leave him. 

\--- 

A character in one of the neon signs adorning the Honey Bee’s facade has taken to intermittent flickering. Zack watches it, rapt as a moth, and wonders how one would go about fixing it. Would it be as simple as switching out a bulb, or are neon lights far more capricious? Could you save the outer casing of the character, replacing the faulty parts within, or would you have to recraft the entire tubing? Would Zack electrocute himself if he tried? Undoubtedly. 

_Maybe Cloud would have better luck_ , Zack thinks, frowning. Cloud is largely capable, after all. He can take care of himself; he insisted that he would be perfectly fine walking to work alone; he has made the solo journey to Sector 6 on countless occasions; he cannot predict when he will lose time; _he might_ ― 

Something shoves Zack’s shoulder, violently snapping him out of his spiral. He automatically falls into a battle stance, tracking his surroundings, only to find Arla observing him with an unimpressed expression, her hands raised in surrender.

“At ease, man,” Arla drawls before leaning back against the wall of the Honey Bee and crossing her arms. “Alright, what’s wrong with you tonight? You’re usually more responsive to my _sparkling_ commentary.” She tilts her head to indicate the customers waiting on the peripheries of the courtyard. “Am I off my game today?”

Closing his eyes, Zack slips a hand under his sunglasses and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. My mind’s elsewhere. What were you saying?”

“Eh, doesn’t matter. It’s no fun making fun of the clientele if I’m doing all the work.” Arla shrugs a single shoulder. “Let’s be productive instead: why are you so distracted? Everything alright at home?” she asks, putting a particularly lascivious emphasis on the last word.

“Uh, yes?” Zack winces at the unconvincing tone. Arla, judging by her raised brow, wholeheartedly agrees with the assessment. 

The thing is, everything at home _is_ alright. Yesterday was a day of upheaval and revelations. Today, thus far, has been pleasantly mundane. Following a light breakfast, Cloud took to Zack’s suggestion of an intense workout with gusto, so they spent most of their free hours alternating between drills and floor exercises. With that and lunch preparations, they were too occupied to even begin dissecting yesterday’s events. 

Zack could, perhaps, interpret Cloud’s silence as a rejection, but the thought rings false. After all, when Zack put a hand on Cloud’s shoulder to steady his stance, Cloud pressed against the touch. When Zack caught his gaze in the middle of demonstrating a maneuver, Cloud did not flinch away. This quiet reassurance does more for Zack than any placating words could.

What it does not quell, however, are the thoughts and imaginings that bay at the door to Zack’s nerves. If not for them, there would be no need to have this conversation in the first place.

“Cloud and I are fine,” Zack insists. “I’m just worried about him. You know his, uh, condition?” Arla nods, her joking manner quickly sobering. “He, uh, he didn’t want me to walk him to and from work today. Which is, that’s fine―he’s allowed to need time alone―but I just wish he could do that…more safely?” 

Arla whistles lowly. “Yeah, that sucks. I don’t have an answer for that. I know how you feel about the other thing though. My girlfriend always gets super crabby if she doesn’t get her alone time. Your boy is kind of a grumpy one, right? Him wanting time apart is probably more about him than it is about you. Trust me―” Arla frees one of her hands, splaying it across her chest. “I been there.”

“I know that. That’s not the problem,” Zack says, struggling to keep the annoyance from his tone. Of course Cloud requires time to himself, but perhaps he would not be so reckless in seeking it out if Zack did not dog his every step. “I’m just worried.”

“He’ll be okay for one day.” Arla squints, looking sideward. “Only start worrying if he starts avoiding you every day. _That_ means he probably has a secret, and, man, are those ever so much _fun_.”

Zack frowns. The strange, fluttering feeling returns in full force. “A secret? What―?” He cuts himself off at the click of the Honey Bee’s door opening, expecting a customer. He cranes his head back in preparation to bid them a good night, only to find Thomas exiting the establishment. 

“Hey,” Arla greets, straightening from the wall with a sheepish smile. “Is it half past already?”

“Almost; you have about ten minutes to go,” Thomas replies as he approaches, his mouth set in a grim line. 

Unnerved, Zack exchanges a glance with Arla, who winces and asks, “Is something wrong?”

“Maybe.” Thomas puts a hand to his forehead, rubbing at the skin. “Neither of you live in Sector 1, right?” When both Zack and Arla confirm that they do not, he drops his hand and releases a breath. “Good. Don’t plan on going to either level tonight. It sounds like there’s some kind of situation going on above with the reactor. The radio ordered everyone to steer clear.” 

“What kind of situation?” Zack asks slowly as the strangeness in his midsection pecks at him, unsettling his insides. “An accident?”

Thomas shrugs. “They didn’t say. Probably didn’t want anyone to panic. Speaking of―” He looks off into the courtyard full of waiting customers and blows out an annoyed breath. “―I should probably warn our ‘upscale’ guests.” 

“Hey, maybe it’ll give ‘em an excuse to stay longer?” Arla offers. “Their gil’s gotta be good for something.”

“True enough.” With that, Thomas squares his shoulders and adopts his most stoic demeanor as he ventures forth into the crowd.

“What’s going on up there?” Arla murmurs, a hint of fear in her voice, but Zack does not respond, unable to reveal the answer, lest it incriminate him. 

No wonder Barret was so desperate when they spoke, intent on finding help even the day before the planned attack. Zack cannot imagine that it is going smoothly, and if the news stations are already reporting it, then Shinra must already be fighting to contain it, having dispatched its lackeys. Zack himself remembers routinely patrolling a few reactors before he was officially inducted into SOLDIER; who―or what―would Shinra send against an actual assault? 

Barret must be more conviction than man, at this point, to risk so much for the planet. For his sake, Zack hopes that Barret managed to inspire someone to join his cause after all―or else that he hired a mercenary willing to aid his team for the right price. 

The strangeness _screams_. 

And Zack loses all breath. 

\---

Intuition can be a fickle thing. Some say that it is gods-given gift―others claim that it is a skill, one honed through years of observation. The rest argue that it is a combination of the two, that some are better suited to wield it. Regardless, it is not faultless. When married to paranoia, it can spring toward false conclusions, triggering disastrous overreactions.

Thus, when Zack removes the floorboard to the crawl space and does not find the Buster Sword or the second set of armor, he decidedly does _not_ overreact―or react at all. In fact, Zack cannot say whether he has ever felt this calm in his entire life. Or, not calm. _Empty_.

So, no, Zack does not react. Zack does not even think. He does not react to the eerie silence permeating the nave, nor does he think about the darkness encroaching from the world beyond the glass windows. He does not react to the monsters growling from the piles of debris on his way to Sector 7, nor does he think about the civilians that must fall prey to them every week. Most importantly, he does not react to the lack of stock-related activity outside Seventh Heaven, nor does he think about the implications thereof. 

When Zack pushes open the door, the taproom within is largely quiet, populated with what seem to be a few stragglers unaware that the establishment closed over forty minutes ago. Tifa, positioned behind the bar, also seems unaware of this fact, but, in her defense, her attention is completely fixed on Aerith, who sits across from her. 

Neither woman notices Zack’s entrance, so he hangs back, deliberating whether to intrude. From this angle, he cannot see their faces, but considering the way Aerith holds her tilted head on her propped-up arms and how Tifa leans in toward her, it appears to be an intimate conversation. It would be cruel to interrupt them. It would be unfair to burden them.

But, Zack is no longer empty, for Cloud is nowhere to be seen. Zack is full of nothing but fear. 

He steps forward, barely registering the floor beneath him. In an attempt to allay the incoming guilt, he tells himself that Aerith would scold him if he did not reach out to her. She would not want him to suffer alone. 

As he approaches, Tifa finally spots him, and Aerith twists around on the stool not a moment later. “Zack!” Aerith leans over to grab his hand before pulling him close, ushering him onto the seat beside her. “You’re a welcome surprise!” she exclaims, no doubt lying, judging by her flushed cheeks. 

Out of habit, Zack’s heart pushes out a smile, but it does not find footing on his mouth and slips away. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Tifa shakes her head, her own cheeks tinged a telling pink. “That’s okay. I mean, you weren’t interrupting anything! And I, ah, have to close up soon anyway.” Tifa glances up at the wall and winces. “Or should have, ages ago. I blame you,” she adds, the glare she sends Aerith’s way coming off as more fond than cross.

Aerith giggles. “Guilty as charged! I’m glad I waited around though,” she sing-songs as she leans in toward Zack, momentarily tipping her head against his shoulder. “Tifa said you weren’t stopping by today.”

Tifa shrugs, smiling. “That’s just what Cloud said.”

“I changed my mind,” says a voice. Only a moment later does Zack realize that it belongs to him. “When will he be back?” 

“It’s hard to say,” Tifa replies, her face falling. Zack should feel terrible for that, for ruining the playful mood. “Soon, I hope.” 

Zack’s gaze loses focus. Intuition may be a fickle thing, but his own, in this instance, has been heartbreakingly loyal. Cloud is not here because he is at Barret’s side, braving a foolish run against a reactor. Zack is not there with him because he refused the job offer; Cloud is there because he accepted. And Zack… Zack is here because Cloud lied to him. 

“Back from where?” he hears from a distance. 

“Cloud’s helping Barret with a job. I’ll tell you about it later. It’s not exactly…safe.”

There is that word again: safe. Cloud told him that they are safer together―and then ran headlong into danger, alone. Just like Zack had, once. Beset by an army, the choice to fight for their freedom, for their _lives_ , had not been a choice at all. In this, Cloud _did_ have a choice. What could he be fighting for that is worth his _life_?

“Not safe? Zack―” He lifts his head, blankly staring back at Aerith, whose brows scrunch in confusion. “―why aren’t you with him?”

“I was wondering the same,” Tifa admits, biting her lip. “I was surprised you let him do this.”

Zack does not know how to reply. He suspects that, should he open his mouth, a scream will escape his throat. Stalling, he raises a hand to flick away the lock of hair hanging before his face. It is a miscalculation: the hand is shaking. Zack quickly tucks it into his lap, but the damage has already been done.

“You didn’t let him,” Tifa realizes, her horrified tone devoid of a question.

Zack swallows and parts his mouth a few times, searching for a fitting answer. “He didn’t tell me,” he finally rasps out. 

“Zack?” Aerith reaches out and places her hand against his shoulder. The touch is far more grounding than the floor at his feet or the sharp bite of the edge of the seat against his thighs, but it does little to siphon away the fear. Unable to speak, he shakes his head. Even if he could, there is nothing more to say.

“Is Daddy back yet?” asks a small voice, drawing the attention of the trio. Halfway hidden behind the jamb, Marlene stands in the doorway to the back corridor, watching them warily. Like Zack, she is unsmiling. Unlike Zack, she is not trembling. If she knows anything of the truth of why her father is not home, she does not carry it with her, either too young to understand or too experienced to let it affect her.

“Not yet, honey.” Throwing Zack an anxious look over her shoulder, Tifa moves out from behind the bar and crouches before the girl. “Let’s go back to bed, huh?”

Marlene shakes her head, her expression souring, foreboding a coming storm. Zack can relate. “Can’t sleep. I wanna wait here with you.”

“Well…” Tifa trails off, sparing Zack another glance. What must show on his face to elicit such concern? “How about you help me close up? Kick out all those lazy guys?” She points, indicating the remaining patrons, all of whom take no notice of the proceedings as they stare into their bottomless drinks. Zack almost envies them. He _does_ envy the distraction Tifa gifts to Marlene. As the two scurry off to shoo away the lingering customers, Zack turns back toward the bar, casting for his own distraction and finding none.

The press of Aerith’s hand on his shoulder disappears, only for it to reappear within his own hand. He drops his gaze to watch as the lithe fingers slip in between his own and squeeze. Zack curls his own into hers, but he does not squeeze back, wary of hurting her. His control hangs on a thread, unraveling further with each pulse of terror that flits through the frayed material.

As they wait, Aerith does not offer any words of comfort, but her hand remains in his, steady and stalwart. Even when Zack loses all concept of time, when the seconds feel like minutes and the minutes feel like seconds, she sits beside him, neither fidgeting nor sighing. He focuses on her―on the warmth of her hand, her quiet breaths―and dares not think. 

When the door finally opens behind them, bringing with it a clamor of voices, Zack does not move. Aerith is the first to turn around, rotating toward him without releasing his hand. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, silently pleading, but her expression gives nothing away. Left with no choice, he tips his face into his shoulder, pressing his mouth against fabric, and looks back.

Barret stands at the front of the party, smiling as he lifts Marlene into his embrace. Beyond him are three people Zack has never met before: a woman and two men, presumably the rest of Barret’s team. For a horrifying moment, he sees no one else, and panic blooms in his chest, stealing him of all breath as it tightens its grip. 

Then, one of the men shifts, and Zack sees it: a glint of sunshine yellow. Moments later, Cloud himself pushes through, impatient to get past the barricade of bodies blocking the room. Cloud. Armed and armored―whole and _here_. He does not yet notice Zack, so he cannot know the joy the sight of his uninjured form evokes in Zack. Equally, he does not perceive when this joy, this relief, twists and obscures into a cold, creeping rage. 

Zack releases Aerith’s hand and pivots to face the entrance, watching and waiting. He can sense Aerith vibrating with worry beside him, but, for whatever reason, she does not reach out, not even to attempt to douse the flames crackling along every nerve in his body. 

Then, Cloud lifts his head―and stills, eyes locked on Zack’s. How damningly they widen, these windows to his guilt. 

Loath to grant Cloud even a moment to compose himself, Zack hops off the stool and flies past him toward the exit, ignoring the strangers’ curious looks. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, the subdued sound far more eloquent than any slam could be. He has not reached the bottom of the steps when the door reopens and releases a pair of footsteps that barrel down after him, giving chase. 

Fingers trail across his forearm, curling inward. “Zack―”

“ _Don’t_.” 

The hand falls away. Zack continues onward without looking back, leading the way. After a moment, the sound of trailing footsteps picks up again, but they are unhurried now, nigh on diffident. They do not dare to walk in stride with Zack’s, either afraid or wary. Even through the haze of anger, Zack regrets this―he would never hurt Cloud, let alone want to scare him―but he cannot stand to discuss this here, out in the open. Not when he is rubbed raw with betrayal. Not when his eyes prickle tellingly, forcing him to blink away the burn.

With every step they take toward home, Zack’s anger spikes and ebbs in turn, remaining largely constant. In moments of clarity, it pulls aside its veil, revealing itself to be fear cloaked in indignity. It speaks in a layered voice, repeating a simple question: _why?_

Unable to help himself, Zack checks back on Cloud, the fear temporarily taking back control of his faculties. Cloud does not meet his eyes, his own focused on the ground, but two slivers of Mako green still glow from underneath his lashes. Under the pauldrons and waist cuirass, he is wearing his old uniform top, the one that Zack stole for him a lifetime ago. Between those and the Buster Sword strapped to his back, he looks like a real SOLDIER: strong and capable and hardly in need of an overbearing friend telling him what he should or should not be doing.

 _I can take care of myself_ , Cloud had said. Zack sighs to himself. Could this have been the reason for his actions? Joining a raid on a reactor to protest Zack’s incessant hovering seems like an overreaction, but it does communicate the message rather aptly. Cloud might as well have painted a giant _FUCK YOU_ for Zack to find upon returning home.

When Zack pushes open the door to the church, he half expects these words to have sprung up in his absence, the paint still wet with recent sentiment. The walls, of course, are untouched, and they remain so when Zack switches on the lantern, casting them in weak light. Task done, Zack simply stands there by the end of the pew and stares into space, uncertain what next step to take. The solace of routine escapes him.

Cloud, who dithered by the entrance upon entering, finally leaves the safety of the threshold. Zack wholly expects him to hurry by, but he stops behind him. A moment later, the hilt of the Buster Sword appears in his line of sight, held by a single gloved hand. Zack accepts it without a word, thankful for this one mark of familiarity. As Cloud moves away toward the washroom, he makes for their bed. 

Unfortunately, it takes but a moment to return the sword to its nightly place, and Zack is left, once more, to his roiling thoughts. He can no longer recognize his emotions, cannot parse which one stands at the forefront. Anger, perhaps. Confusion. Fear, even after the danger has passed, its aftershocks rocking him in relentless waves. Love, always, for none of these others would exist if not for its unwavering presence. 

It is the last that demands answers. It is the last that urges Zack to sit down on the empty pew by the lilies, to extinguish his anger. But, it is not the last that leaves his mouth upon Cloud’s return. 

“You said you were helping Tifa,” Zack accuses, voice so frosty that it freezes Cloud in place, leaving him framed in the doorway. After a moment, he thaws and steps forward, stopping a few feet before Zack, his expression carefully blank. All evidence of his exploits are gone: armor removed and grime washed away. Even his shirt has been switched out for the blue. He is no longer Cloud the SOLDIER; he is simply Cloud. 

Zack’s heart throbs. 

Cloud remains silent, seemingly seeing no reason to confirm what is fact. Zack sighs and looks away, his gaze catching on the sword in the corner, the sole witness to this incoming train wreck. “How were you gonna keep this a secret?” he asks quietly, indicating the weapon. “I would’ve known something was up the second I got home.” 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Cloud answers, crossing his arms. “Only before,” he finishes lamely. 

“Right.” Zack drops his chin, narrowing his eyes. After a moment, he crosses his own arms, mirroring Cloud on purpose. Zack does not have a monopoly on emotions, but there is something unfathomably irritating about Cloud making this gesture. If anyone should be crossing his arms, it should be _him_. In the back of his mind, he knows that this is nonsense, but, in the moment, the sight of Cloud awkwardly lowering his arms feels vindicating. 

“Listen, Zack―” Cloud makes to step forward, but appears to change his mind, shifting from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry I lied to you. That was fucked up.” Zack lifts his head warily, Cloud’s sincere tone piquing his hope. “But I’m not sorry for what I did.”

And, just like that, Zack’s simmering anger rekindles to a furor. “Not a great start,” he remarks, not bothering to keep the snideness in check. What, exactly, is he not sorry for? For the civilians that must now be without power? For the soldiers he must have cut down to make it into the depths of the reactor? _For putting his life on the line for no good reason?_

Cloud shrugs, fixing his gaze on a spot past Zack’s shoulder. “Better than lying again.” 

“Sure, if you look at it that way.” Zack leans forward, bracing his hands against the edge of the wooden seat. “Doesn’t fix the first lie though.”

“It doesn’t,” Cloud admits, shaking his head slowly. “I had to make a choice. You wouldn’t have let me go otherwise.”

 _At least you didn’t pretend like you didn’t_ have _a choice_ , Zack thinks, scoffing. The latter observation, however, is decidedly unfair. It is no question whether Zack has made several regrettable decisions when it comes to Cloud, but he would never go as far as to steal away his autonomy. 

“I’m not your warden, Cloud,” he bites out. “I can’t force you to do anything. I _wouldn’t_.” 

“You’d have asked me not to though,” Cloud says quietly. The conclusion that Zack’s discouragement would have been enough to sway him goes unsaid, but Zack hears it all the same. In a different, softer context, the implicit declaration would feed the warmth pulsing within his heart, but, here, Zack is unmoved. Cloud’s actions eclipse the sentiment. 

“Yeah, I would have. I wonder why that is.” Scowling, Zack tilts his head at a sharp angle, fixing Cloud with a glare. “Do you want me to list the reasons?” 

Cloud shakes his head, not even wincing at the rising volume of Zack’s voice. “I know them,” he says, as nonchalant as though they were discussing this morning’s breakfast. How can he be so unaffected by all this? Does he even _care_? 

“Right, you knew them and still did it anyway.” Zack digs his nails into the wood beneath him, his frustration mounting as he fails to understand _why_. Although he wondered whether this was an act of rebellion, Cloud’s calm and somewhat contrite manner contradicts that theory. _Could_ this be about saving the planet, or would Barret, after seeing Zack’s response, have forgone that tactic altogether, skipping ahead to the reward? 

Watching for his reaction, Zack says, “Barret said he would pay me good money.” The flinch is nearly imperceptible, but Zack sees it. “How much did he offer _you_?” 

Cloud’s reply, when it finally comes, is preternaturally quiet. “A lot.”

Zack exhales a long, slow breath, suddenly finding it imperative to pacify the anger beating against the walls of his self-control. “Is that why you accepted? Money?”

“I… I was…” Cloud stammers, his carefully crafted facade cracking to reveal the skittishness underneath. He turns away, seemingly unable to even face Zack. It is this uncertainty, this reluctance to place his trust in him that finally snaps the thread keeping Zack’s volatility restrained. 

“You know what, I don’t even care,” Zack snarls, jumping up from the pew. Cloud startles, jerking back to look at him. “What _really_ pisses me off is that you left without telling me. I could’ve been waiting here for you all night and―” Zack rounds on Cloud, shaking a clawed hand. “―you’d’ve been _dead_. You didn’t even have the decency to write a _suicide note_!” 

“ _Sui_ ―” Panic writ upon his face, Cloud swiftly closes the distance between them, but he does not reach out. His hands hover in the air in a play at either surrender, placation, or both. “Zack, it wasn’t― Give me some credit. I wasn’t gonna die. You taught me better than that,” he reassures, tone desperate but gentling on the final words. 

“How do you know that?” Zack demands, his hands trembling as he holds them out in supplication. “How could you _possibly_ know that? You think a few sword lessons are gonna make you invincible?” At that, Cloud’s expression darkens. _Good_ , Zack thinks. Anything to make him _understand_. “Cloud, I helped you so that you could defend yourself, not so you could run off to find some Shinra soldiers to _kill_.”

“I didn’t. I only fought in self-defense,” Cloud hisses. “I’m not a killer.” 

The rebuttal promptly snaps Zack out of his rampage, the epithet incompatible with the image of the Cloud that lives within his mind. He drops his hands, letting them dangle at his sides. “No, you’re not a killer,” he agrees, sighing. “But you wouldn’t have had to fight anyone in the first place if you’d stayed home. No one would’ve tried to _kill you_ if you stayed home.”

Glaring at the ground, Cloud does not respond. 

Zack raises a hand to his mouth, pressing against it to force back the scream that threatens to escape him. To think that, not even an hour ago, Zack could have lost him. With every battle Cloud waged, he laid his fate on the chopping block, only to dash out from underneath the executioner’s axe. How many soldiers must he have fought to be standing here, unmarred? 

Funny to think how this―how their _lives_ ―could have been different. Years ago, neither of them had known, let alone understood, Shinra’s machinations. Even after Zack had experienced them firsthand, it was betrayal that finally drove him to desert the organization, Shinra’s lackeys at his heels. Cloud himself never had to make the choice; if he had not been assigned to Nibelheim, it would have never even presented itself. What is to say that Cloud, bright-eyed and proud to have been entrusted the post, could not have been patrolling the Sector 1 reactor when the attackers struck? What is to say that Cloud, acting under orders to protect the city’s infrastructure, would not have been collateral damage? 

“Gods, Cloud,” Zack whispers, shuddering with horror. “Those people were just doing their jobs.”

“ _Their jobs_ ,” Cloud repeats. Zack startles, reeling at the underlay of a heretofore unheard malice in his voice. Eerily still, Cloud slowly lifts his glare, directing it at him. “You know who else was just doing their jobs? Those soldiers who ambushed you. Their _job_ was to kill us. Are they victims, too? Were they innocent?” 

Zack parts his lips, confusion overriding his immediate response. What do those soldiers have to do with this? “That’s different,” he manages, unable to keep the defensiveness from his tone. “Their orders were…wrong. They didn’t have to follow them. They chose to.”

“What did it matter to them? An order’s an order,” Cloud quips, spitting vitriol. He stands far too close, his eyes hooded beneath his brows from this angle. Zack wants to step away, but his body does not listen. “Zack, you didn’t hesitate to fight them.”

 _Oh_ , Zack thinks. _That’s what you mean._

No, Zack did not hesitate to fight them, nor did he hesitate to kill them. In the end, there are no justifications for killing, only the trite mantras soldiers tell themselves on sleepless nights. _They gave me no choice, I had my orders to kill them, I got them before they could get me_ , and so on. Zack’s own mantra has not two subjects, but three: a _me_ , a _they_ , and a _you_. 

“Of course I didn’t,” Zack replies, clenching his fists. 

“So how is that different from what I did?” Cloud demands, raising his head. “Zack, how?” Too close―he is far too close. Unable to bear it, Zack makes to turn away, but Cloud grabs his shoulder, impeding him. “ _How is that different?_ ”

“ _Because they tried to take you away from me!_ ”

The shout echoes throughout the nave, deafening in the cool darkness of night. When the reverberations cease, Zack opens his eyes and finds himself clutching Cloud’s arms. Without pause, he relaxes his fingers and releases him, stepping out of range. His anger, once so prevalent, has left him, lanced out along with the damning declaration.

Zack is exhausted―he is _humiliated_ ―but he still meets Cloud’s wide-eyed gaze. “What did _you_ risk your life for?” he accuses, voice weak for all that it could have brought down the building moments before. 

Predictably, Cloud does not reply, and, in the ensuing silence, Zack retreats, aching to lick his wounds. He drops back onto the pew and folds in on himself like a puppet on slackened strings. When his eyes prickle tellingly, he leans forward to hide his face in his cupped hands. For all that his soul is already laid bare, allowing the tears free rein might break him completely.

Zack has received no answers, but he cannot rally the strength to ask any more questions, not after Cloud so deftly found the heart of the matter― _his_ heart―and exposed it for an exclusive viewing. What does Cloud think of it, now that he has seen it? Would he want such a snarling, possessive thing?

Zack stills at the sound of a single step, tensing as it is followed by several more. He does not move his hands, half fearing and half hoping that he will see a pair of feet standing before him should he look down. Instead, he waits, ignoring the heavy tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Finally, a hand, tentative but determined, lands upon his shoulder. Its fingers curl around, touching the base of his neck. 

Zack exhales. It feels like permission. It feels like _acceptance_ ―of what, he can hardly say. He does not have the energy to figure it out.

Letting himself go, Zack tips forward into Cloud, the backs of his hands brushing against fabric. Hearing the silent order, his tears break free from their own bonds, rolling down his cheeks to collect in his palms. Once flowing, they are reluctant to stop, and Zack cannot refrain from sniffling, hoping to stem the tide. 

Above him, Cloud hisses out a swear. His hand disappears, only for his entire arm to wrap around Zack’s shoulders, grasping at his shirt. Cloud’s other hand joins the embrace, but it is not so stationary, jumping from rubbing his back to stroking his hair before resuming the cycle. Biting back a sob, Zack drops his own hands, slips them into the dip of Cloud’s lower back, and _pulls_. 

Cloud’s torso, solid and warm against his forehead, grounds him, lowering his defenses. Not a second later, the tears begin to flow faster. If Cloud resents his dampening shirt, then he does not protest, too occupied with running his fingers against Zack’s nape, flinching with panic whenever Zack delivers a rasping sob.

Zack has more reason now to feel embarrassed, but it is the farthest thing from his mind, for as the tears leave him, so, too, does the heaviness pushing down upon him diminish. He can breathe again. Where once fear and anger constricted his lungs, now there is only a sadness tugging away at him. And yet, he can bear it; he can bear anything that invites Cloud to hold him like this.

As he slowly quiets, Cloud relaxes into him, timing his caresses to the rhythm of Zack’s recovery. His bent knee presses into the outside of Zack’s thigh, keeping Cloud from falling into him. Although Zack did not register its initial appearance, he focuses on it now, hyperaware of this spot of heat hemming him into the embrace. The hands on his neck―for there are two now―are even warmer, resting from their previous flutterings. The fabric beneath his face, however, is strangely cool, rising and falling with steady breaths.

Zack’s embarrassment, once drowned, resurfaces. Wary, he lifts his face away, only to flush when he sees the tear-stained shirt. Even so, he does not loosen his grip, afraid that Cloud will retreat should he release him. As though sensing his worry, Cloud adjusts his hold, shifting Zack just a hair closer―and bringing attention to something Zack had not caught before: a mottled scrape along the inside of Cloud’s arm. 

Zack stares. Already scabbed over and healing, it cannot even be called a wound, but it is nonetheless an unwelcome reminder of Cloud’s recklessness―for which Zack never received an explanation. He can no longer stand not knowing. Even if the sole reason was to add to their coffers, he needs to hear it. He needs to hear _why_.

“Why did you do this, Cloud?” Zack whispers, eyes fixed on the injured skin. “ _Really?_ ”

Cloud sighs. Then, he is quiet for a long time. It is a silence heavy with deliberation, not avoidance, so Zack simply waits, not lifting his gaze. He does not move a muscle, loath to attract Cloud’s attention and divert his trail of thought. Cloud himself is largely still, only his fingers fidgeting where they rest upon his neck. Zack yearns to see his eyes, but those same eyes would look back, wise to the affection Zack’s own convey. For once, he empathizes with Cloud’s shyness.

Then, Cloud’s arm tightens, the muscles flexing. Zack senses him looking down upon him, but he does not react. Cloud releases a shaky breath.

“I’m…angry,” he confesses, voice carefully even. “At Shinra.”

In a matter of seconds, Zack understands. He understands _everything_. How could he not? Zack was there with him, even in places Cloud had not tread. He was there at Modeoheim, at Nibelheim, at what _would have been his grave_. If Cloud has cause to be angry, then Zack’s is threefold. So, why is it that Cloud took up the call, whereas he did not? Where is Zack’s anger?

“Zack, they stole four years of our lives,” Cloud explains urgently, mistaking his silence for skepticism. “They hunted us for months. We _still_ don’t know what they did to me. They even erased what happened to my home.” Then, seemingly subconsciously, he slips a hand away from Zack’s neck and presses it against his own abdomen. 

_Ah, there it is_ , Zack thinks, his pulse spiking in response to the wound that almost claimed Cloud’s life.

Zack lifts his head, finally meeting Cloud’s gaze. For all that his eyes are brimming with pain, there is resolve there, too, crystallized into a need to punish Shinra for its crimes. It is the same resolve that saved Zack from an untimely end; it is the same pain that followed Cloud thereafter. Zack would unwind time itself to siphon it away, but that is not in his power. So, instead, he does the first thing that comes to mind: he reaches out and touches the back of Cloud’s hand. 

This time, there is no glove keeping them apart. This time, Cloud does not look away from him. This time, Cloud turns his hand, fits his fingers through Zack’s, and squeezes. 

“They tried to take you away from me,” Cloud echoes, voice not nearly as soft as his gaze. “Zack, why aren’t _you_ angry?”

Zack looks at their clasped hands and, smiling, thinks, _I don’t want to be._

“I _am_ angry,” Zack demurs quietly. He knows that his anger has not―and perhaps will never―entirely leave him…if it can even be deemed as such. Cloud’s anger is white-hot, aching to be used, but Zack’s has grown listless and solemn, rarely driving his actions. Visiting it can rouse it from its slumber, but it has long been suppressed by Zack’s gentle heart, which has always held dominion over him.

Cloud watches him with an expression of disbelief, so Zack carefully knocks their hands against Cloud’s covered scar, silently begging him to understand. “I’m angry about _this_. I’m angry that it would’ve killed you if they hadn’t experimented on you. That those _experiments_ nearly killed you.” Zack has to stop to clear the rasp from his throat. After collecting himself, he whispers, “I’m angry that I keep almost losing you to them.” 

Cloud winces, visibly deflating. Zack shakes his head; he has no use for his guilt, not now that he sees that the blame lay with Shinra. It always had. “Most of all, I’m angry that we can’t just move on with our lives. Cloud―” Zack’s hand, resting on Cloud’s lower back, trembles. “―I don’t want Shinra to own us anymore.”

Cloud releases a shuddering exhale. “What _do_ you want?” he murmurs. Zack cranes his head toward him, but Cloud betrays nothing, watching Zack watch him, waiting.

_What do I want?_

In the depths of his heart, Zack has known the answer from the very moment he held Cloud upon waking from death. It rests in the curve of Cloud’s smile, in the line of his sleeping figure silhouetted against lantern light. It lives in every shared meal, in every playful jab made at the other’s expense―in every second spent together, good or ill. 

“To live in peace,” Zack confesses. He tugs Cloud closer, setting their joined hands against his rapidly beating heart. “With you.”

Cloud stares. His fingers, lying on the nape of Zack’s neck, clench, nearly digging into the skin. His mouth parts, closing when no sound leaves it. But, his eyes― _his eyes_ ―they soften. 

Zack’s heart begins to march in double time. Then, when Cloud leans forward, in triple time. He is far too close again, his face hovering above Zack’s; he needs to be even closer, but Zack does not say as much. He simply _looks_ , letting his beating heart speak for him. Cloud’s hand, shaking above it, replies in turn, squeezing their interlocked fingers. 

Then, because he cannot let it go unsaid, Zack asks, “Cloud, what do _you_ want?”

Cloud ducks down. Zack tilts his head. 

The kiss, when it lands, does not alight alone. It brings with it a name, which leaves Cloud’s lips as he presses them against Zack’s own. The syllable is nearly lost in the exchange, but Zack hears it all the same, reading it in the shape of Cloud’s mouth. Pulsing with ardor, he returns the sentiment, naming his love in a single breath. 

Zack could catalog all the lingering looks and all the heartfelt sighs that have led them here, but for all those escalating moments, this kiss does not teeter upon the heights of a culmination. If anything, it is a quiet confirmation, an acknowledgment of requital, given almost in afterthought. To Zack, it feels like a beginning. 

He does not want this chapter to end, but he is forced to turn the page when Cloud laughs into his mouth, breathless and happy, breaking the kiss. Reluctant to go far, Zack opens his eyes and tips his forehead against Cloud’s, watching him shine. 

Oblivious to the scrutiny, Cloud attempts to school his expression, but his unfettered smile remains. It does, however, quirk into a parody of itself when he finally opens his eyes. Gently, he releases Zack’s hand before placing his own on Zack’s face. His thumb wipes across his cheek in a tender arc. 

“What’re you crying for?”

Zack rasps out a laugh, the sound wet with tears. He had not even noticed their return. Perhaps he stared too long at the sun, overwhelmed by its intensity. 

“Because I’m happy.” 

If Zack has any tears left, they disappear when Cloud, smiling, climbs fully onto the pew, kneels astride Zack’s lap, and whispers, “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In case you are wondering: yes, Tifa is definitely gay.  
> \- It always bothered me that we don’t get even a moment of Cloud checking on Zack after his first fight with Sephiroth. This was my way of reconciling that injustice.  
> \- Aerith is like a PG-13 movie: she’s allowed to say “fuck” one time.  
> \- I might be a pretentious gay, but I will never not laugh at some good-natured slapstick. Sorry, Cloud, but that shelf just had to be dropped on you.  
> \- I admit that I found it difficult to characterize Barret in this fic, mainly because his personality in the original game feels too much like a caricature, so I focused more on his philosophy to round him out a bit. I hope that I did him justice.  
> \- Most interpretations of Zack show him wholly onboard with joining Avalanche, but fucking hell was it a fun challenge to create a Zack that would reject Barret’s offer (I took a good boy and gave him anxiety, whoops) and then pair him off with a Cloud who remembers most of what Shinra has put them through. Now that’s the kind of relationship drama I am here for.  
> \- This love confession was a result of months of thinking and planning and days of actual writing. I cannot emphasize how pleased I am with the result. The desperation, the fragility, the softness? This is why I love writing about these two.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings  
> \- Canon-typical violence  
> \- The beginnings of a panic attack that is quickly averted (if you want to avoid it, it happens shortly after Zack wakes up in the church)

Zack is pacing. It is what one does, he understands, when one needs to find a solution to a thorny problem. Admittedly, walking to-and-fro beside the lantern-lit flower patch does nothing to wrangle his roving thoughts, but that is not wherein lies its appeal, for said pacing is the only thing that can sufficiently distract him from Cloud.

Cloud, who stands leaning against the column closest to their bed, watches him with undivided attention. Zack feels the weight of his gaze with every one of his nerve endings, welcoming how it sparks them to life. He wants nothing more than to divert his path toward Cloud, take him into his arms, and _worship_ him, but there is still so much to unravel, so much to pacify between them. 

Cloud himself was the one to apologetically retreat from their kisses, placing his hand atop Zack’s lips to prevent him from following. There was a problem, he said, a promise he had made to Barret, one that they needed to decide whether Cloud should keep. And so, they reluctantly untangled their limbs and settled down side by side on the pew―and then stood when both realized that the new position did nothing to subdue the gravitational pull that drew them together. 

Hence, the distance. And the pacing. Zack takes a deep breath, attempting to mollify the longing tugging at his heart. Or, not longing―there is nothing wistful about it, not after he opened up to Cloud, only to be met with the same intensity of feeling. It is…surreal, this new notion that, were Zack to reach out to him, Cloud would reach back. His longing has evolved into _want_. At least Cloud, judging by how he shifts every time Zack shoots him a furtive glance, shares his dilemma. 

With a burst of exasperation, Zack stops in his tracks. The pacing, although having spectacularly failed in its sole purpose of distraction, will soon succeed in wearing a groove into the floor. He shakes his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. Barret. Shinra. The reactors. Cl― _The reactors_. 

“How did Barret even plan to mess with the reactor?” Zack finally manages, rubbing his forehead. _Gods_ , he is exhausted. What they should really be doing right now is sleeping, but Cloud revealed that Barret’s second mission is planned for tomorrow afternoon―in a handful of hours, in other words―so here they are. Debating.

“A bomb,” Cloud answers after a moment, blinking out of his pacing-induced trance. “Homemade.”

Zack blows out a long breath. “Barret’s guys sure don’t do things by halves.”

“Avalanche,” Cloud remarks nonsensically. Then, in response to Zack’s incredulous expression, he adds, “The name of their organization.”

Zack squints, picturing the crew of fighters he spied at Seventh Heaven. Barret included, there had been four in all, a sorry number to wage war against the titan that is Shinra. However, if only a few falling boulders are enough to trigger an avalanche… “Fitting.” Zack places his arms akimbo on his hips and glances at the ceiling. “Now if only they didn’t impact civilians during said avalanche.” 

“If it makes you feel better,” Cloud says, recapturing Zack’s attention, “I don’t think the blackout lasted long. Shinra rerouted power from their other reactors right away.”

“That does make me feel a little better,” Zack admits, frowning. While Midgar is run by Shinra, most of its inhabitants are simply trying to live their lives, seeking to make ends meet. Hindering any of them sits ill with Zack, but the discomfort doubles when he realizes that he _knows_ some of them. What has Binh and his family done to be affected by all of this, let alone all the people in the slums below, vulnerable to monsters? Is the sacrifice, as Barret claimed, worth it to save the planet?

“What about when _all_ the reactors are down?” Zack wonders aloud. “Barret wouldn’t stop at just two, would he?”

“Maybe he’d leave enough to power the city?” Cloud offers, but, even as he says it, they share a disbelieving look. They have both seen Barret’s passion for themselves: he will not stop unless he himself is stopped. Zack cannot imagine what happened to the man to have instilled such dogged conviction within him, but it cannot be anything less dire than what happened to Zack and Cloud. They are, after all, not the only ones to have been wronged by Shinra. 

_The planet won’t save itself_ … 

Despite himself, Barret’s words pull at Zack, calling to his old self that so desperately dreamed of becoming a hero. “Do you think there’s truth in what he said?” he asks, crossing his arms. “That Shinra’s draining the planet of life?”

Cloud lowers his head, frowning at the ground. “It’s possible. I don’t know. But…I think Shinra’s probably done more harm with Mako than good. Just look at us.” 

“Hey,” Zack protests weakly, forcing a smile. “We turned out okay.” 

“Repeat that next time you have a nightmare,” Cloud mutters. “Point is, we can agree that whatever Shinra’s doing, it’s not great.” 

An understatement, but one that is nonetheless true. It is, after all, what inspired Cloud to join the raid on the Sector 1 reactor in the first place. Looking at him now, Zack wonders if that same anger still burns within his heart. Zack’s love could douse it for a while, perhaps, but it is unlikely to have extinguished it completely, not after all the pain Shinra caused them, feeding oxygen into the flames. Cloud must yet desire to hurt them in turn, in whatever way he is able. 

“You’re still angry?” Zack asks, to which Cloud shrugs. _That’s a yes_ , he thinks, nodding to himself. “You want revenge?” 

Cloud sighs before pushing away from the column and making his way toward Zack. Old habits die hard, so Zack stands preternaturally still as he approaches, tracking his movements. If Cloud notices Zack’s caution, then he is undeterred: without hesitation, he nestles against Zack’s side and slips his arm around to settle on his lower back. When Zack finally lifts his own arm with a slow exhale, gathering the blond toward him by his shoulders, Cloud smiles, the curve of his mouth slight but undoubtedly there.

“Not at your expense,” Cloud finally replies, eyes shining as he cranes his head toward him. Zack starts to heave a sigh of relief, only for the breath to lodge in his throat as Cloud adds, “But there is one other thing.”

Zack groans. It is far too late―early―for yet _another_ thing, but he can hardly deny Cloud anything, so he nods, encouraging him along.

“You weren’t wrong, before.” Cloud drops his gaze, focusing on Zack’s chest. “Barret said he’d pay even more for the second job.”

Zack was not wrong…meaning that the reward _had_ been a factor after all. He tilts his head, attempting to catch Cloud’s eyes. “Sunshine, I didn’t just say what I said to make you feel better. We really are doing okay. Better than a lot of people down here, if you think about it.”

Cloud shakes his head. His fingers play with the hem of Zack’s shirt, threatening to lift it away. “I overheard you talking to Tifa. About finding a room for us.”

“Oh.” Zack flushes. Rife with fear, he _had_ talked to Tifa about moving, desperate to escape the shadow Shinra’s long hand cast upon them. Reason, however, found him again, so he set aside those impulsive plans for another time, but Cloud would not have known this. And so, he charged ahead, eager to prove that he could contribute to their household. No wonder he beat himself up over his low-paying clerk job.

“You caught me at a weird moment,” Zack explains. “Barret spooked me, so I thought we had to move. So that Shinra couldn’t find us.”

“You…didn’t feel safe.”

“Yeah,” Zack agrees, relieved that Cloud caught on so quickly. “This church is fine though. Hey, I bet it’s bigger than anything we could get anyway. And Aerith doesn’t charge rent!” 

“Did you mean it though?” Cloud asks quietly. He lifts his free hand and places it atop Zack’s heart; not a second later, Zack covers it with his own, the action preceding any formed thought. “Would you want to find a place together? Somewhere less―” He hesitates, glancing at the lilies. “―temporary than this?”

As Cloud raises his head, meeting his eyes, Zack is taken back to a night of hushed conversation and imagined stars. The house, then, had stayed hidden away in Zack’s mind, but he pictures sharing it with Cloud now, its skylights and sunlit kitchen and smiling inhabitants. Any place they find themselves will be home so long as they are together, but the dream of this one has never sung as sweetly.

Zack nods. 

Cloud leans forward and nestles into Zack’s chest, failing to hide his smile against his sternum. “Same.”

Zack’s own grin could illuminate the entirety of the night sky. He pulls at Cloud’s shoulders to complete the embrace, aligning their torsos before locking his arms behind the blond’s back, reeling at the fact that he _can have this_. Even the concept that Cloud wishes to build a home with him has not yet fully registered. 

It is far too much to process at once, but at least therein lies something comfortingly familiar: Cloud’s pragmatism. Why, after all, pass up an opportunity to add to their house fund while simultaneously raining destruction upon Shinra? Zack cannot abide the measures he took to keep it a secret, but he does understand him―doubly so now. 

Zack ducks his head, straining to reach Cloud’s ear, and whispers, “Sunshine, a large payload isn’t worth your life, even if it’s for a home. Why can’t we just save up gradually like we’ve been doing?”

“It’s taking too long,” Cloud grumbles, and Zack proceeds to swoon at the revelation that Cloud is _impatient_. “Tifa pays better, sure, but it’s still only so much.” He lifts his head, forcing Zack to retreat lest they end up staring at each other cross-eyed. “With what Barret’s offering, we could afford a deposit for a nice place and still have plenty left over. We’d have to look in the slums, but―” 

Cloud stops, taken aback. Zack does not wholly know what just flitted across his own face, but, whatever it was, it cannot have been a smile. 

“Zack,” Cloud says slowly, carefully, leaving a trail of ignited nerves along the line of Zack’s spine. “Do you _want_ to stay in Midgar?”

Once, with Shinra nipping at their heels, the thought of reaching Midgar and the safety it proffered was the sole thing, second to Cloud, that drove him onward. Now…the thought of remaining here is akin to biting into a rotten apple, superficially benign but internally detrimental. 

“I don’t,” he whispers.

“Then we don’t have to,” Cloud declares all in a rush, his eyes shining with his characteristic resolve. Zack wants to kiss him for it. “We can leave. Fuck Midgar.”

Zack has been in this moment before, tempted to run and leave it all behind, but guilt, once again, stands guarding the gates to his selfishness. “What about Aerith?” They all swore to look after each other―what kind of so-called hero would he be if he were to abandon her? “We can’t just leave her alone.”

“Zack, have you seen Tifa?” Cloud deadpans. 

Zack bursts out laughing, half from shock and half delight. Tifa, a quiet force of nature in her own right, had not yet been a part of the equation when Zack and Aerith made their promise. He has been lately remiss in asking Aerith how their relationship is progressing, but, judging by their interaction at the bar, Tifa would indeed be more than happy to look after her, among other things.

He winces, raising a hand to fiddle with his hair. “I think I ruined their date. Or a moment they were having. Something.”

“ _I_ ruined it,” Cloud insists heatedly before shaking his head, seemingly annoyed by the change in subject. “Aerith won’t be alone. They’d both be fine if we left. And Tifa would kick both our asses if you implied they wouldn’t be.”

“True enough.” Zack sighs, dips his face into the crown of Cloud’s head, eliciting a grunt, and breathes, trying to lull his warring thoughts within the softness of the blond spikes. “We don’t know if it’s safe to leave yet though,” he mutters, unable, even now, to banish the memory of an army pointing its rifles at him. “We need to wait until we’re sure Shinra’s forgotten us.” 

“It’s not gonna get any safer. Shinra thinks we’re dead.” Cloud huffs out a terse laugh, squeezing Zack’s waist. “They still do. I borrowed one of those dumb helmets from Avalanche’s stash. Not that anyone would have recognized me without it.”

“Cloud―” Zack says before said blond speaks up again, interrupting what would have been a loving treatise on his very noticeable and very _memorable_ hair. 

“As long as we stay here, Shinra will own us,” Cloud asserts. Zack shifts back, desperate to see his own plaintive words leaving Cloud’s mouth in gouts of fire. “But we can _leave_. Zack―” Cloud’s hand, resting on his heart, presses down. “―didn’t you want to live where you can see the sky?” 

Zack stares. He longs― _wants_ ―to touch Cloud’s face. Not a second later, he realizes that there is nothing stopping him from doing just that. Slowly, he raises a hand and places it against Cloud’s cheek, his thumb tracing the lower lip of his mouth. Cloud closes his eyes and _melts_ against it, nestling his face into his palm, and Zack melts in turn, his knees nearly buckling. 

“You’ve been taking care of us all this time,” Cloud says into his skin, sending the words through his pores and into the very heart of him. “Please let me do this for us.” 

Overwhelmed, Zack momentarily closes his eyes and whispers, “You’re trying to manipulate me.”

“Yeah.” Cloud lifts his hand from Zack’s chest and covers the one on his cheek, keeping him trapped. “Is it working?” 

Zack sighs. He is not, as he protested, Cloud’s warden, but a sole word from him would be enough to dissuade Cloud from his current path. And yet…what if Zack is wrong? What if, reward notwithstanding, this is the only way for Cloud to find peace? Zack knows wherein his own peace rests―so he does not seek retribution―but Cloud is not Zack, nor are they who they used to be. Shinra has scarred them both beyond recognition. A shy, unassuming infantryman, dissected and thrown out with distaste, became a snarling warrior, doling out justice. A smiling, would-be hero, hunted and gunned down without a care, became a resigned passerby, hungering for quiet.

So, no, Cloud is not Zack. And even if he will not exact his revenge at Zack’s expense, what right, in the end, does Zack have to deny him closure? The very least he could do would be to let Cloud go, but Zack can do one better: he can stand at his side.

“Okay,” Zack agrees, tipping his forehead against Cloud’s, “but I’m coming with you.”

Unsurprisingly, Cloud releases a sound of frustration and jerks away from the touch. “You don’t have to babysit me. I can take care of myself. I’m not _weak_.”

“Sunshine, who said _you’re_ the weak one?” Zack whispers, smiling wryly when Cloud’s scowl freezes and starts dropping away in thawing sloughs. “I almost lost my mind when you disappeared on me. Do you think I’d do any better even knowing where you are?” 

“Oh.” Chastened, Cloud cranes his face toward Zack, who is quick to return the affection, nuzzling against his forehead. It is funny: after all the months of fearing that Cloud would pick up on his feelings, it now takes nothing at all to speak them aloud. Is that a component of love? Willing vulnerability? 

“Okay, you can come with―” Cloud grabs Zack’s nape, eyes narrowing. “―but you’re wearing a helmet, too,” he orders before finally eradicating the inches of distance between them, sealing the decision with a kiss. 

If given a moment of reprieve, Zack could fall asleep within minutes, but the kiss, both tentative and intent, still manages to pique his interest. He shifts in place, wondering whether they should allow it to take its natural course. Cloud, upon ending the kiss and retreating to give Zack a speculative look, appears to feel the same. However, the dark shadows below his eyes, stark against his pale skin, quickly change Zack’s mind. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Zack warns, his regret tempered in the face of reality, “keep in mind that I’m exhausted and we have a mission later.” 

“I know,” Cloud quickly answers, still staring. His eyes, once slitted, have widened. “I wasn’t…”

Smiling, Zack shakes his head, relieved despite himself. As much as he wants to show Cloud just how beloved he is, he would rather do so when he has the energy to prove it in full. Cloud deserves more than a rushed production fitted in before sleep can fall upon them like a curtain upon a stage. 

“Don’t worry about that now.”

“Right, but you do want that,” Cloud hedges, slowly turning his head to give Zack a calculating side-eye. “Eventually.”

Zack side-eyes him in turn, a notion starting to niggle at the back of his mind. He thinks back on how Cloud, still an infantryman, never mentioned any dalliances or crushes, let alone asked Zack about his own―unlike their fellow soldiers, who were incorrigible gossips. He remembers how easy it was to convince Cloud to share a bed with him, how Cloud took to curling into him as smoothly as a lover. He hears the echo of his name on Cloud’s lips, and he sees the present caution in his gaze. 

“Sunshine―” Zack pauses, searching for the right balance between reassuring and supportive. “―you know we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And I mean _anything_.” 

Cloud’s mouth parts, seemingly from shock. Chuckling, Zack leans back in and playfully knocks their heads together in an attempt to snap him out of it. Is it so astonishing that he succeeded in reading him? Well, considering that Zack misjudged the depth of Cloud’s affection for Tifa, perhaps it must be. 

Cloud lets out a little hum, one graced with wonder. “You keep surprising me,” he murmurs before shaking his head slowly. “I _do_ want to. I really do.”

Zack grins. He would have taken it in stride had Cloud heaved a sigh of relief, but the thought that Cloud wants this, too, leaves him euphoric. There are countless ways Zack could make him happy, but his fluency in love manifests best through his actions, followed only by his words. If Cloud allows it, then Zack will give them all to him, now and forever.

“Me, too. Just not when we’re exhausted,” Zack says, smiling softly. “Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

Cloud grumbles his discontent, but he does not dally in releasing him, further proving that Zack steered them in the right direction after all. With a grin and a parting ruffle of blond hair―followed by an annoyed swat, courtesy of Cloud―Zack hops away and escapes to the washroom, not having had the chance to clean up and change before. He rushes through the process, anticipating both the bliss of rest and the welcome warmth of Cloud’s body against his. 

When Zack returns to the nave, Cloud is already waiting in bed, lying supine as he stares at the ceiling, visibly lost in thought. Watching him, Zack blindly turns off the lantern and goes to join him, stepping over his dark silhouette when he reaches the bedside. For a few moments, Zack fusses with the blankets, stalling. They have cuddled, in varying states of consciousness, every night for almost a year now, but this, given their new-found awareness of each other, will be _different_. 

Before he can rally his courage, Cloud turns his head to face him, Mako eyes indescribably warm. “Zack, do you feel safe right now?” 

Zack stills, blindsided by the question. Then, blinking away the surprise, he takes a moment to give it his full consideration. He imagines that “safe” is a concept that, if ever it held truth, will never do so again―not for him, anyway. One day, perhaps, the universe will have pity on him and grant it, possibly via a little house somewhere far from Midgar. Tonight, however… Tonight, Zack thinks he can have a taste of what it might feel like. 

“Yeah,” he says and finds that he is not lying. “I feel safe.” 

“Good,” Cloud murmurs and proceeds to shift onto his side, facing him, and into Zack’s chest. “Roll me over if that changes,” he adds tiredly before nestling in closer. Mere moments later, he is breathing deeply, practically melting against him. 

Careful not to wake him, Zack places a gentle hand onto the slope of his back. This is not so different after all. His love for Cloud, though confessed, is unchanged―as is Cloud’s…love for him. So, why would anything be different?

Zack falls asleep smiling. 

\--- 

The sensation of the Buster Sword bearing down upon his back is unfamiliar, for when Zack last wielded it, he was a different person. Naturally, he still carries the same hurts his past self did, but their weight now is better distributed across his person, less encumbering and, thus, less present. They do not nip at his thoughts, not like Cloud’s must at his own.

Hence, as Zack follows Cloud up the steps to Seventh Heaven, he wonders whether the sword is better suited to the blond after all. The weapon must yet channel the desperation he felt when facing an army of Shinra soldiers―his anger, too. Cloud, who woke from a melancholy slumber to find himself aflame, would know how to use these to his advantage. 

As though in tune to his musings, Cloud glances back at him upon reaching the front door and raises a brow. Feeling caught, Zack adopts an innocent expression and tilts his head questioningly, but Cloud simply lifts a fist to the door without knocking, granting―Zack realizes―one last chance to change their minds.

Zack smiles, his countenance no doubt replete with adoration. He wants to crowd Cloud against the wall and thank him for his consideration, but he remains rooted to the step beneath him, deferring to a tacit decision they made this morning: today, they are soldiers, not lovers. After all, it would not do to become distracted on the battlefield, not even to celebrate their newfound connection. So, with the exception of a lingering kiss shared in bed, they have maintained a distance between each other, focused on the mission ahead. Of course, said decision can do nothing to govern Zack’s besotted thoughts. One day, perhaps, he will grow used to this happiness, but he imagines that it will simply settle into his bones, leaving him forever content. 

“Ready when you are, sunshine,” Zack quips, grinning. 

Cloud rolls his eyes― _fondly_ , he notes with glee―and turns back to face the door before knocking. They do not wait long before the click of a lock opening resounds and the door begins to creak open. 

“Sorry, we’re clo―” 

Tifa stills, mouth agape as she takes in their battle-ready appearance. Not a second later, she steps back, beckoning them inside. Zack and Cloud quickly comply, both aware of their conspicuous armaments. Cloud may have worn a helmet to hide his identity upon raiding the Sector 1 reactor, but their armor too easily marks them as SOLDIERs. That, or thieves. 

Once they are safely ensconced inside, Tifa locks the door before turning to face them. “It’s good to see you two. Cloud, I―” She hesitates, throwing Zack a sympathetic look. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming this time.”

“We worked it out,” Cloud replies sedately, glancing at Zack with a glint of warmth in his eyes. 

“We compromised!” Zack corrects. _Among other things_ , he adds mentally, unable to suppress his smile. “We’re _both_ going on this mission.”

Tifa blinks, darts her shrewd gaze from Zack to Cloud and back, and promptly smiles. “I’m glad. Aerith and I were both really worried about you last night. And I’m sure Barret will be happy to have you, of course,” she hurriedly tacks on upon seeing Zack’s wince. “Though, he might be short with you after, well, you know.”

“Lemme guess: after I rejected the job the first time?” Zack offers wryly, recalling his and Barret’s less-than-cordial parting. This particular tidbit had only occurred to him this morning, having been lost in the slew of exhausted arguments the night before. Zack can only hope that Barret is the sort to put the needs of his cause before his personal misgivings, but if Tifa is optimistic, then he must at least have a fighting chance. 

Cloud reaches out and punches his arm, although it is far too gentle to deserve the name. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“So will I,” Tifa says and begins to walk toward the service corridor, urging them onward. “I’m going on this mission, too. Now that Shinra’s seen what Avalanche can do, they’ll be more careful. The more fighters we have, the better.”

“You been on one of these before?” Zack asks as he trails after her, Cloud following him closely. 

“I’ve done scouting missions, but nothing like this,” Tifa admits before ducking underneath the staircase. She crouches and dips her fingers into a divot in the floor belonging to what must be a hatch: the entrance to Avalanche’s hideout, no doubt. “Don’t worry: I won’t slow you down,” she adds as she lifts it open, revealing a ladder leading down a vertical shaft.

“I wasn’t worried,” Zack replies honestly. It is not her he is worried about, after all. Tifa might yet be a civilian, not having encountered the brutality of war, but she is far from incompetent. Cloud, on the other hand, while competent, is also reckless―perhaps doubly so after the victorious raid on the first reactor. Although he returned virtually unscathed, he is still growing accustomed to his new style of fighting, and it does not help that, since they only have one sword between them, Cloud has had no opponents to practice against. Needless to say, Zack will be shadowing him this entire mission. 

“Tifa, you could fall flat on your face and he won’t notice,” Cloud quips lazily, making Tifa laugh delightedly. Before Zack can deny the assessment, Cloud fixes him with a playful look, at which Zack’s protest dies in his throat. 

_Soldiers, not lovers_ , he reminds himself. “Only because I’ll be too busy watching you fall flat on your _ass_ ,” Zack bites back with a grin, _mostly_ succeeding in smothering the urge to flirt. 

Cloud’s eyes narrow as he makes to reply, but his retort is cut short by Tifa, who says, “Not to step on the heartfelt moment, but we’ve got a briefing to get to.” She grabs hold of the edge of the hatch, hops onto the ladder, and begins to climb down. “One of you get the door on your way down, alright?”

Not skipping a beat, Zack follows her down the hatch, automatically putting himself before Cloud and unknown terrain. Predictably, Cloud sighs, but he does not complain, waiting for Zack to make room on the ladder before climbing down. 

Zack lowers his head to watch the rungs under his feet, wary of slipping. Below, a square of light shines at the end of the shaft, silhouetting Tifa, who soon drops out of sight as she reaches the end of the ladder. He tenses as the walls of the shaft fall away, revealing a well-lit basement. Cautiously, he steps off the ladder, head on a swivel, but when none of the room’s inhabitants so much as glance at him, he relaxes and steps aside, giving Cloud space to climb down.

While Tifa approaches the rest of the team, Zack hangs back, observing. Just to his right, a woman Zack recognizes from the night before sits typing at a computer station. At the center of the room sits a hefty metal table, at which two men, also familiar, pore over papers together. Barret stands by the head of said table, writing on what appears to be a blueprint of one of the reactors tacked to the far wall. He seems preoccupied, so Zack looks away, thinking to greet the woman at the computer, but she does not lift her head to acknowledge him, too involved in her work. Every now and again, she diverts her attention to look at a muted but captioned television propped up in the corner, her fingers blindly flying over the keys. 

“Well!” Barret calls out, startling Zack. He looks over just in time to catch Barret lobbing his marker at the table before making his way toward them. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. You back with us, Cloud?”

Cloud steps forward, unintentionally, or perhaps otherwise, placing himself between Barret and Zack. “Yeah―” He points a thumb over his shoulder, affectedly nonchalant. “―and I brought a friend.” 

“Yeah, I see that,” Barret remarks, crossing his arms, and fixes Zack with a steady look. “You change your mind, ex-SOLDIER?” 

Despite being loath to give Barret any reason to send him away, Zack cannot help the annoyance that sparks upon hearing that epithet. Considering that he is here to fight against Shinra, the dig at his past is uncalled for. Well, Zack might feel wiser these days, but he is not above spitefully throwing Barret’s words back at him. Maybe Cloud’s mannerisms are finally rubbing off on him.

“Nah, I’m just being selfish, helping myself,” Zack replies, grinning cheekily. 

Barret narrows his eyes even as Zack’s grin grows, while Cloud glances at him with confusion. Tifa, who took a seat on one of the crates surrounding the central table, heaves a world-weary sigh, capturing everyone’s attention and effectively saving Zack from his own stupidity. 

“You can trust him, Barret,” Tifa reassures, smiling. “We could use another fighter.” The two unnamed men, who have thus far been wordlessly watching the exchange, nod in unison. 

“He’s the best one I know,” Cloud adds, and Zack only refrains from latching onto Cloud’s back and nestling in close by reminding himself that they have an audience, and a particularly stubborn one at that.

Barret lets out a frustrated huff, seemingly deflating. “You’re lucky we’re short on members, asshole,” Barret grumbles. He turns back to the table and grabs the abandoned marker, hunching over the papers strewn across the tabletop. “Just don’t expect more than what I offered blondie. He already gouged me on the price. I ain’t paying _both_ of you.” 

Zack slowly turns his head to stare at Cloud, who stares back calmly, seemingly unashamed at extorting money from what is, in his defense, technically a terrorist organization, albeit one that has good intentions. Zack shakes his head, exasperated. For all that Cloud is sweet with Zack, he can be particularly cold-blooded elsewhere, especially when he has a set goal in mind. 

Well, Cloud can ream him out later if he disagrees, but Zack decided to join this mission to keep an eye on him, not for the money―Cloud’s safety is payment enough. Grinning, he turns back to Barret and says, “Nah, you’re the lucky one. You’re getting today’s special discount: two assholes for the price of one!”

The joke instantly breaks the tension in the room, making the entirety of Avalanche laugh to various degrees. Even Cloud cracks a smile, but Barret, to Zack’s relief, is the one who laughs the loudest, not even bothering to hide his amusement. 

“Yeah, alright, wise guy,” Barret says between chuckles. He glances sideward, waving an arm at the woman stationed by the computer. “Jessie! Get him a spare train pass.”

The woman―Jessie―smiles and says, “You got it, boss,” before shifting back to face the monitor. “One bona fide fake identity coming up!” 

“Thanks,” Zack says to Barret, pouring as much sincerity into the word as he can. They may not have started off on the right foot, but if they are to work together, then he must do everything he can to mend that schism. Barret only grunts in response and resumes his inspection of the maps, but, considering how Tifa smiles at them, Zack suspects that he is no longer on Barret’s shit list―or else closer to being stricken from it. 

“Great!” Tifa exclaims, hopping up to her feet. “Now that you’re an honorary member of Avalanche, let me introduce you. Everyone, this is Zack. Zack, that’s Biggs and Wedge―” She points at the two men, who wave cheerfully in greeting. “―and that’s Jessie over by the computer. She’s our tech expert.”

“Nice to meet you, Zack!” Jessie calls over her shoulder. “You want any particular name on this train pass?” 

Zack squints, remembering the last time he was forced to answer with a fake name. As a result of that instance, his coworkers at the Honey Bee are still convinced that he is happily married, not that he has any complaints, especially given recent…changes. 

“Anything’s fine,” Zack replies flippantly, accepting that his imagination does not extend to coming up with convincing aliases. “Last train pass I used had the name of a woman on it, and that was for weeks at a time, so I don’t think they pay much attention to them.” 

“They will now,” Jessie mutters as she refocuses her full attention on the computer, typing away. Before Zack can ask what she means, he is distracted by a gloved hand gently pulling at his forearm. Even though he knows whom to expect, Zack still loses breath at the sight of Cloud looking up at him with such open fondness. 

_Hey, sunshine. You’re making it real hard not to kiss you._

“Let’s finish suiting up,” Cloud says quietly and then proceeds to lead Zack past Barret toward a stack of storage containers in the corner of the room. There is a Shinra helmet resting on top, likely the same one that Cloud wore during last night’s mission. “This is their stash,” Cloud explains, popping open the lid of the nearest container after setting aside the helmet. “I’m pretty sure I saw another helmet here before.”

Not needing to be told twice, Zack delves into another container and begins his search. As he suspected, it is largely filled with Shinra-issued rifles and magazines, interspersed with an occasional part of a uniform. The former he glances at with distaste: although he learned how to handle a rifle when he first joined the military, he lacked the patience for aiming. Thankfully, the SOLDIER unit had always specialized in melee combat. Still, if these are the only weapons available… 

Zack side-eyes Cloud with concern, wondering if he resents switching weapons. It was the Buster Sword that he took on the first mission, after all, not a rifle. The last time Cloud handled a gun was months ago, so would he be safer with the sword? Still ruminating, Zack peels back the lid of a second container, only to make a happy sound when he finds a helmet. 

“Got it!” Zack exclaims as he lifts it from the stash, bouncing it around between his hands. He looks up, expecting approval, only to jolt at the look of absolute horror on Cloud’s face. His gaze is directed at the helmet, so Zack quickly rotates it to see what affected him so deeply.

“Ah,” Zack says matter-of-factly, staring at the _CANNON FODDER_ written on the side of the helmet in stark red paint. “Yeah, that’d do it.” Raising a brow, he angles it toward the rest of the room and clears his throat. “Nice decoration.”

Unsurprisingly, Barret snorts out a laugh when he glances over, earning himself a glare from Cloud’s direction. 

“Sorry about that,” Jessie calls, wincing as she leans away from her computer. “I wrote that. We were all tipsy that night.”

“Good times,” Wedge says wistfully, only for Biggs to elbow him. 

Zack sighs, lifting a hand to fiddle with his hair nervously. Despite the ominousness of the words, he cannot claim that they are not accurate. Even before Shinra marked them as fugitives, they were both little more than cannon fodder, as Jessie so aptly designated them. Zack’s SOLDIER rank certainly did nothing to combat that. Why not lean into it, then?

“Maybe I should take that one,” Cloud mutters, reaching out to grab the helmet’s edge, but Zack quickly snatches it away.

“Nope! This one’s mine,” Zack asserts, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He is willing to defy superstition for his own sake, but he would never dare to do so with Cloud. “Don’t worry, sunshine. Shinra’s called me worse. This is nothing new to me,” he adds, only to bite his tongue when Cloud pales. 

“I’ll get you some paint to cover it in a sec,” Jessie says, her tone distracted as she ducks back into her work. “Black, if I can find it…”

“Thanks,” Zack calls as he gives Cloud the most reassuring look he can muster. Cloud’s bottom lip disappears with how worriedly he bites it, but he turns back to the containers without a word, seemingly willing to drop the subject, at least for now. With shaking hands, he continues his search, looking―Zack suspects―for a third helmet. For the sake of Cloud’s peace of mind, Zack joins him, rifling through his own container. 

Zack has long ago realized that he must be a favorite plaything of fate, which is only confirmed when they are unable to find a third helmet. What they do find, however, is another sword, one frightfully similar to the kind Zack fought with as a Second-Class SOLDIER. 

Cloud holds the weapon thoughtfully, testing its grip, and Zack can do nothing but stare. It looks…strange. He cannot explain why, but the sight clashes with whatever version of Cloud he holds in his mind. It is a…a downgrade. Why give Cloud a weapon that does not use his full potential? Just as Cloud would be limited with a rifle, so, too, would he be with this sword. As soon as the thought drops into Zack’s mind, the Buster Sword tugs at him in tandem, agreeing. 

Decided, Zack removes the Buster Sword from its harness and gently steals Cloud’s weapon, only to press the former into Cloud’s hand. Zack smiles when Cloud looks up at him in shock, his features quickly screwing up in protest.

“We’ve been training a while now,” Zack murmurs before Cloud can argue with him, nudging their sides together. To his surprise, the touch has an instant effect: Cloud relaxes against him with a quiet exhale. And, well, Zack might have decided to keep it platonic during the mission, but Cloud is not the only one capable of manipulation. “You gonna show me what you’ve learned, sunshine?” 

“You gonna be like this the whole time,” asks Barret gruffly, standing at their backs, “or am I gonna have to separate you?” 

Caught, Zack jumps away from Cloud with a laugh and raises his hands, shaking them pleadingly. “Hey, no need for that! We’ll be good, I swear.”

Barret, visibly unimpressed, glances at Cloud, who makes no such promise, not even after the former lowers his brows pointedly. “You better,” Barret warns, narrowing his eyes at Cloud. “Hurry up. We gotta get you up to speed.” 

“We’re done,” Cloud says, his earlier disquiet completely wiped from his face. Sparing Zack an unreadable look, he hefts the Buster Sword and attaches it to the harness at his back before stepping toward the meeting table, Zack trailing after. “Which reactor are we going after this time?”

“Sector 5’s,” Barret answers, leaning over the blueprints scattered across the table.

Zack stumbles to a halt, knocking into Cloud, who froze upon hearing the answer. He winces, picturing the darkness of the slums, only twofold; at least Cloud confirmed that Shinra was quick to reroute power to the downed reactor. Still, he cannot imagine that Aerith will be especially pleased about this. Moreover, considering the awkward look on Tifa’s face, she likely did not warn their mutual friend, so neither will Aerith be prepared. 

“Do you think Aerith’s gonna kill us?” Zack whispers to Cloud, tuning out Barret as he begins what appears to be a rousing speech. 

Cloud shakes his head. “Worse. She’ll be disappointed.” 

Zack blows out a breath, agreeing. Cloud, standing ever so close, glances back over his shoulder, looking at him from the corner of his eye. Despite his earlier bravado in the face of Barret’s impatience, he looks worried, his demeanor begging for reassurance. Unable to resist the magnetic pull, Zack leans down and touches their temples together, allowing them this one last moment of intimacy. Who knows what will happen to them, after all. If his life has taught him anything, it is that, as a soldier, he is guaranteed nothing. 

“It’ll be okay,” Zack says and then tears himself away, leaving Cloud to wordlessly follow.

\--- 

Depressingly, Zack has been on worse missions. After the horrors of Modeoheim, charging through a train to avoid a blaring security alarm is routine at best. So, too, is scaling the underbelly of the Plate relatively tame in comparison. Even sneaking through a reactor to rig it to blow does not faze him. This, however, Zack thinks as he stares up in horror at a giant, holographic projection of the top half of President Shinra, is threatening to change his mind. 

If asked, Zack would have admitted that his biggest concerns about this mission were being either gunned down, separated from Cloud, or recognized. Now, he realizes that he should have added to the list being recognized by the _leader_ of the very company he deserted. 

Zack tightens his grip on his sword and pulls his gaze away from the president to watch the walkways and the darkened doorways they lead to, the fear of ambush pressing in against him on all sides. Standing at a T-intersection, Cloud, Tifa, and Barret take no notice of the danger, drawn in by the spectacle above them like moths. They are all terribly, irrevocably exposed. 

“Pre― President Shinra?” Barret says with palpable shock. Cloud swears under his breath as Tifa lets out a murmur of disbelief. 

Zack sneaks a glance past the railing of the walkway, but there is only an abyss below them. Even if he or Cloud _might_ survive a fall into the slums like that, Tifa and Barret would definitely not. Their only option is to flee through one of the doorways, which…brings to question why said escape routes remain empty. Why aren’t they being surrounded by soldiers? What is the president planning?

Gritting his teeth, Zack darts his gaze around, senses attuned to any sounds standing out from the clatter and hiss of machinery. His borrowed helmet, edging in on his peripheral vision, only worsens his anxiety, but to remove it now would only seal his fate. If the president would not recognize him, then someone, watching through a camera, surely would. 

The hologram narrows his eyes and leans forward, his gaze not quite directed at the party standing on the walkway―ostensibly inspecting a wall of screens. He hums thoughtfully, making Zack jolt as the sound echoes throughout the space. Even the walkway beneath his feet shakes with the reverberations. Unsettled, Zack glances over at Cloud, focusing on the stubborn curve of his mouth, before reluctantly looking away. 

“So, you must be the upstarts causing us all this trouble,” President Shinra says, frowning. Then, terrifyingly, he smiles, the gesture doing nothing to ease the malice in his features. “Funny, I expected something more impressive. What were you called again?”

Barret steps forward, raising his gun arm in the air. “We’re _Avalanche_ , asshole, and don’t you forget it! Trouble’ll be the least of your worries once we’re through with you!” 

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” President Shinra replies placidly, at which Zack is quick to send another round of paranoid looks at their surroundings. “It takes more than a few trigger-happy vigilantes to take on Shinra’s might. You think you’re the first rebellion we’ve dealt with?”

Zack grimaces as Angeal’s stoic face flashes through his mind. _Focus_ , he tells himself. 

“If there’s any of you that stands a chance of surviving―” The president waves a languid hand, chuckling to himself. “―it’s the SOLDIER. However, we’re much harsher on traitors, so who’s to say?” 

As Cloud stills beside him, Zack slowly exhales. Tifa, standing before them, shifts in place, but she does not dare to glance back. Barret has no such compunctions: he stares at both of them readily. If Zack did not know any better, he would even say that Barret looks proud. Of them or of himself, Zack cannot say, but it does nothing to allay President Shinra’s suspicions, so Zack sends Barret a glare through the damned helmet. The president only referred to _one_ of them as SOLDIER. He does not need to know that Cloud is a deserter as well. 

“What? Thought I wouldn’t notice through that helmet of yours?” asks the president. “Nothing less than a SOLDIER could wield a sword like that.”

Zack jerks his head over to stare at Cloud, feeling like a fool. The Buster Sword. They made such a fuss over their Mako eyes, but how could they have forgotten about the _sword_? Cloud, judging by how he adjusts his grip on its handle, feels similarly.

“What’s your name, traitor?”

Cloud does not reply; his mouth, however, twists in rage, seemingly in response to one of the people to whom so much of his pain can be traced. It tugs at a primal instinct residing in Zack’s heart, urging him to protect. Without further thought, Zack steps in between Cloud and the hologram and stares up at it in defiance. He is certain that the gesture does nothing to block President Shinra’s view, for there must be several cameras aimed at them, but it communicates his point nevertheless.

Cloud, either unaware of the cameras or uncaring of them, gently knocks his knuckles against Zack’s mid back. Zack feels the reprimand through his touch, but he does not move away. 

“Ah,” the president intones, narrowing his eyes, “two traitors, then?” 

“Damn right!” Barret shouts and points at the hologram. “Even people who worked for you want to see Shinra destroyed! And they’re willing to die to make that happen!” Cloud quietly scoffs at the claim; Zack agrees, but, watching how Barret glances back at them with fanatic resolve, he knows better than to show it. “We’re taking down this reactor, even if we have to go down with it!”

“Well.” President Shinra raises his arms and interlocks his fingers. “That can be arranged. A reactor is a small sacrifice to pay in order to exterminate vermin like you.”

“Vermin? Who the fuck you calling vermin?” Barret demands, ignoring Tifa’s wordless attempts to placate him, and lifts his gun arm at the president. “Shinra’s the one killing the planet! _You’re the fucking vermin!_ ” 

Unable to help it, Zack momentarily squeezes his eyes shut as Barret unloads a round at the projection, the blast of gunshots far too close for comfort. He must flinch, for Cloud is quick to return his hand to the curve of his spine, soothing now where before he chastised. 

“I wouldn’t waste your bullets,” the president says, completely unperturbed. “See, I really must be going, but I am a benevolent host, so I have arranged a playmate for you all.”

Zack tenses at the sudden sound of whirring coming from beyond the left doorway. Slowly, he turns his head sideward. There is something there. The gunshots must have provided cover for its approach, but Zack can just about parse its imposing silhouette. Behind him, Cloud breathes in sharply, having noticed it, too. Whatever it is, it is not human.

“What’s that noise?” Tifa asks, darting her head around.

“Watch out!” Zack screams as whatever stood in the doorway rushes at them― _fast_. Zack lunges at the nearest railing, only to propel himself farther down the walkway to avoid getting trampled by the assailant hot on his heels. It stops short of attacking him, however, so Zack swiftly scrambles to his feet and turns to face their opponent, sword at the ready―and swears under his breath. 

Zack has encountered battle machines before, but they are always a pain to fight, their defenses difficult to penetrate with a sword. This one―shaped like an enormous, armored soldier hovering over the ground on a single, wide leg―looks especially sturdy, although Zack can already pick out flaws in its construction. He suspects that the joints connecting its arms to its torso must be its weakest points, followed by its waist, which seems far too slight to hold up the upper half with ease. If they can target those areas, they might be able to incapacitate it. As long as they avoid its guns, that is.

Zack, however, stands alone. Although the machine’s attack failed to inflict any damage, it did succeed in separating him from the rest of his friends. Cloud, who flung himself to the opposite railing at Zack’s warning, runs up and levels his sword at the machine. Tifa and Barret join him not a second later, and when it rotates to face the bigger threat, it reveals a mess of glowing machinery and wiring on its back. Its generator, Zack realizes with a start. 

“The fuck is that?” Barret yells, redirecting his gun arm.

“Meet Airbuster, a techno-soldier,” President Shinra declares from above. “Our Weapon Development Department created him. I’m sure that the data he’ll extract from your dead bodies will be of great use to us in future experiments.” The president laughs as his hologram flickers and disappears. His voice, echoing throughout the cavernous space, adds, “Try not to scratch him up too badly,” before dwindling into nothing.

“A techno-soldier?” Tifa repeats, readying her fighting stance. “As in, capital SOLDIER?”

Cloud shakes his head. “Doubt it. It’s just a machine.” 

“Doesn’t matter!” Zack shouts. “We gotta bring it down and get outta here before the reactor blows. Cloud, attack when I get its attention! Target the generator on its back!”

“Right!”

Zack charges forward, raises his sword in a wide arc, and stabs into the glowing panel on the generator before dancing back swiftly out of the techno-soldier’s range. It turns to face him, powering its guns, and Zack wastes no time in dodging the ensuing barrage of shots. He only vaguely registers Cloud slashing at the generator in turn, too focused on presenting himself as a more appealing target. After all, he, on his own, has a far better chance of not getting hit, as opposed to his friends clustered together on the other end of the walkway. 

Zack grins when the techno-soldier keeps its guns leveled at him even after Cloud’s attack, only to yelp in horror as it shoots at the trio without turning, apparently armed with rear guns. Cloud raises the Buster Sword as he retreats, shielding both himself and Tifa with the makeshift shield, while Barret leaps forward below the techno-soldier’s range and fires, landing a point-blank shot. 

“Keep it distracted, Zack!” Barret yells. “We’ll get the generator!” 

“Got it!” Zack shouts before leaping back into the fray. 

His thoughts, then, fall to the wayside as his instincts take control. He darts in and out of range, slashing at the techno-soldier when he is able, but focusing mainly on confusing its targeting instruments, moving too quickly to track. He fought like this before, he realizes through the haze of battle, _used to_ fight like this. An age has passed since his last stand against an army, when the lone thought that existed in his mind was simply: _endure for just a little while longer_. But, this― _this_ ―is how he used to fight, all instinct and adrenaline and exhilaration. 

Zack’s only concerns have been domestic as of late, so it is no wonder that he has forgotten, but it remains true: he is good at surviving, but he is even better at fighting. And Cloud, closing in on their opponent with no shortness of skill, is the same. A brainless, lumbering automaton has no hope of winning against them.

The world slows as Cloud leaps into the air. Mid dodge, Zack watches in silent awe as Cloud raises the Buster Sword high above his head and slashes downward, running it through the generator in a long arc. 

The bullets cease immediately. Zack prepares to dodge should any more fly his way, but Cloud’s attack must have broken the central mechanism, for the techno-soldier begins to stutter, its limbs juddering with erratic movements. A surge of energy rushes across its hull, while a steady stream of black smoke begins to rise from its back. 

All at once, the world quickens. 

“Shit,” Zack whispers as the techno-soldier sparks and catches fire―and then repeats it when he realizes that Cloud, staring up at the machine in a daze, is not moving. Zack drops his sword and rushes forward.

“ _Cloud, run!_ ”

Cloud jolts as if startling awake and makes to turn away, shielding his front, but, Zack knows, it will not be enough. Closing in on him, Zack reaches out. The walkway below rumbles and creaks. It gives way into nothingness as a blast of heat sears his back, as he places his hands against Cloud’s shoulders and _pushes_.

The world tilts. 

Zack scrambles to find purchase on the edge of the destroyed walkway, but he is already falling. His hands can only grab hold of empty air. Then, above him, an arm stretches out from the walkway, followed by a face―grief-stricken and painfully dear―but they are both out of his reach. 

As Zack falls farther and farther into the abyss, he closes his eyes, keeping the sight of Cloud’s face in the forefront of his mind. If this is the end, then it will be the last thing he sees.

 _Guess the helmet was cursed after all._

\--- 

Zack comes to with the echo of a headache rattling around inside his skull. He is lying supine on something soft, which, thanks to its sharp and distinctive scent, quickly reveals itself to be soil. Groaning quietly, he shifts his head sideward and frowns when his cheek encounters a prickly caress. It is far too sharp to be a lock of hair, so Zack reluctantly opens his eyes, only to be met with a blur of white and green. 

“You know, that’s the second time you’ve done this,” says Aerith’s voice from his other side. “At this rate, you’re not going to get your deposit back.” 

Dumbly, Zack blinks until the blur focuses, filling his vision with flowers― _Aerith’s_ flowers. What is he doing in her flower patch? Was he…napping here? Slowly, he turns his head to face her; she is crouching at his side amid the lilies, looking down at him with concern. After a few moments of his dumbfounded silence, she frowns, leans toward him, and stares at each of his eyes in turn. 

“Hm, your pupils look okay,” she murmurs and then shifts back to sit on her bent legs. “Do you need another heal?”

“Heal…?” Zack repeats faintly before mentally backtracking to revisit Aerith’s initial remark. “Second time I did what?” 

“Crashed through the roof!” Aerith exclaims as she points at the ceiling, making him jump. “You’re lucky I started carrying around my Cure materia. Zack, what’s going on? How in the world did you fall _again_?”

 _Fall_.

Resurfacing with a start, the memories engulf Zack in a riptide, dragging him out to sea and suffocating him. The walkway breaking apart underneath him, the endless fall, Cloud reaching out to him… Cloud. _Cloud_. Zack left him behind, and at a reactor, no less, that was scheduled to blow minutes, if not seconds, later. 

Yelping, Zack struggles to lift his torso from the ground, only just cognizant enough to place his hands into the gaps between the plants, not wishing to crush them further. “ _Cloud_ ,” he gasps and manages to double over to the side before sliding a knee underneath himself. “I gotta―”

“ _Stop_.” Aerith’s hands drop down onto Zack’s shoulders and grip them tightly, grounding him for a tenuous moment. “Don’t run off without telling me what’s going on. Remember what happened last time?”

Last time… Last time, Zack scoured three sectors and nearly lost his mind and _did_ lose his breath because he could not find Cloud anywhere. His chest tightens at the reminder, but this time, _this time_ , he _knows_ where Cloud is, and Zack should be there with him, defending him. What if the president sends another techno-soldier after him and the others, delaying them? And they cannot escape the reactor in time? How long has he been unconscious…? 

Zack chokes on air, struggling to inhale past the stone lodged in his throat. His fingers, clutching the soil, loosen in realization. No matter how long it has been, even if Avalanche’s bomb has yet to go off, there is no force in the world that could bring Zack to Cloud before it does, not unless he sprouted wings. Zack closes his eyes and relives the fall, watching Cloud’s face fade until he was only a speck in the distance. Why did he just _sit_ there? Cloud should have been running away, but he wasted all that precious time. What is the point of a sacrifice if the one protected from harm does not live to see it through? What is the point of _Zack_ if he cannot keep Cloud―the only person he was ever able to save―alive? 

“Zack, I need you to breathe,” says a voice, distant and worried. Something presses gently against his heart. “Slow, deep breaths, Zack.” 

Aerith, he realizes. Zack opens his eyes, vaguely registering her presence before him. Her hand, the most present part of her, rests against his chest. His heart thuds against it, threatening to knock her away with how forcibly it beats against her palm. He cannot begin to wrangle his erratic breathing, but he focuses on that sole point of contact, staring at the bangles on Aerith’s wrist. 

“When you last saw him, was Cloud okay?” she asks, her voice reaching him through the haze of panic. 

Slowly, Zack nods, unable to gather the breath to speak. 

“Good,” Aerith says, relief coloring her tone. “That’s good. That means he can protect himself. Cloud’s strong, isn’t he?” 

Again, Zack nods, only to nod more firmly as he murmurs his assent. That is right: Cloud _is_ strong. Grumpy and stubborn and far too reckless for his own good, but so very strong. And spiteful, too―he would not follow Zack into death, not while there is still so much to avenge. Therefore, Cloud must be alive. Zack will accept nothing less.

With a gasping but deep inhale, Zack resettles into his body. The sensation of urgency that beset him is gone, but it has left him feeling vaguely ill. As his stuttering pulse begins to slow underneath Aerith’s hand, he takes another full breath and forces himself to pause before the next one. It nearly happened again, he realizes with a wince, remembering the incident at the train station, but, this time, Aerith was here to see him fall apart. 

Zack peeks up at her, but Aerith is nothing but warm, her face perfectly composed. “Better?” she asks, patting his chest carefully. 

“Y-yeah,” Zack manages, darting his gaze away in embarrassment. It only serves to redirect his attention to the mess he made of the flower bed, the lilies lying crumpled underneath him. “Ah, shit. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to land on your flowers. A-again.” Shakily, Zack shifts to his feet and rises, accepting the hand Aerith offers to help him balance. 

“Don’t worry about it. They survived you falling on them once―they can do so again!” She smiles when Zack makes it to the edge of the wooden floor. “They’re more resilient than you’d think.” 

Wanly, Zack returns the smile, distracted by his knees threatening to buckle underneath him. This is not the first time Zack has recovered from falling from such a height―the same height, incidentally―but he does not remember feeling this bad, especially not after having been healed. The first go-around, Aerith must have healed him, too―for not even a SOLDIER could walk away from a fall like that unscathed―but, after waking, he was up in a matter of moments, flirting and smiling without a care. It is strange: pain does not faze him, but a loss of breath, an uptick in panic, throws him completely out of his depth. 

Attempting to hide his weakness, Zack casually walks over to the altar. His heart is screaming at him to run, to search for Cloud, but his brain is warning him against it. The first place Cloud would likely think to look for him would be at home, so here will Zack stay, waiting. 

Zack settles on the steps before the altar, stretches out his legs, and then glances down when his foot rocks against something strange: the Shinra helmet. It is covered in the black paint Jessie found, but he still remembers the red epithet written across it. Scowling, he kicks it away, aiming sideward to avoid further destroying the flowers. As he watches through narrowed eyes, it bounces off the wall and thuds against one of the many pews. 

“I think that thing’s cursed.”

“It probably saved you from a concussion,” Aerith chides, knocking into his shoulder playfully after dropping down to sit beside him. “Now, could you please tell me what happened?” 

Sighing, Zack rubs his hands against his face, only to lift them away in surprise. He stares as he moves his thumbs toward his palms, poking at the tender skin there. With only one pair of gloves between them, Zack had given his to Cloud’s, knowing that the Buster Sword is easier to wield with the grip of leather holding it steady. Zack’s borrowed and much lighter sword should have been no match for his calluses, and yet, his skin protests. 

_Has it really been that long?_

“Zack?” 

Zack shakes his head, setting aside the complicated feeling to inspect later. “Sorry. I’m all over the place. Maybe I am concussed?” he suggests, only to clear his throat when Aerith responds with a less-than-amused expression. “Um, I don’t know how much Tifa told you, but do you know what Barret does?”

“Generally,” Aerith admits, slowly tilting her head from side to side. “Tifa didn’t give me any details, but Avalanche is fighting Shinra. And last night, they did something to the Sector 1 reactor, right?”

“Yeah. Barret says Shinra’s killing the planet by extracting Mako, so he wants to bomb them all, and, uh―” Zack fiddles with his hair, glancing away awkwardly. “Cloud and I decided to help him with the Sector 5 reactor. I’m not proud of it, but we both had our reasons.” He jumps when a hand slips into his, squeezing; when he looks back at her, Aerith is frowning, but she nods pointedly, urging him to continue. “Right, ah. We’d set the bomb and were on the way out when we were ambushed by a, a techno-soldier, the president called it.”

“The president?” Aerith repeats, her frown deepening. “As in President Shinra?” 

Zack nods, recognizing the fear growing in her eyes. “He showed up as a hologram. Talked to us. Cloud and I were both wearing helmets, but…I dunno.” He shrugs, the gesture far too sharp to be anything approaching nonchalant. “He guessed we were ex-SOLDIERs.” 

“I see,” Aerith murmurs. “That’s worrying. But then, how’d you end up falling?” 

“The walkway we were on broke when the techno-soldier exploded, after we beat it. Cloud was―” Zack swallows, remembering the dazed look in Cloud’s eyes; had he ended up losing time after all? “―too close, so I ran to push him away, but I got caught in the blast and fell. And, and now I have no way of knowing if he’s okay or―”

Eyes burning, Zack cuts himself off, unwilling to voice his fears, lest they come true. _Cloud is alive_ , he repeats to himself, curling toward Aerith’s hand. _Alive and strong and headed home._

Above him, Aerith sighs. Coming from anyone else, it would sound pitying, but Zack knows her far too well not to hear the genuine pain in the breath. “I know how much you care for him and want to protect him, but, _Zack_ ―” She tugs at his hand, gently forcing him to look at her. “―you have to trust him, too. He’s not helpless anymore.”

“Oh, trust _me_ ,” Zack says weakly, a wet chuckle escaping him, “I’m aware of that. Cloud was very clear about that.” He forces himself upright, the soothing mantra continuing in a loop at the back of his mind. “He’s really not. Helpless, I mean. But he’s also angry, and I’m…afraid of what he’s capable of when he’s angry.” At Aerith’s questioning sound, he adds, “Afraid for him.”

Zack cranes his head, zeroing in on the faint light filtering in through the―expanded―holes in the ceiling. Cloud’s expression flashes across his mind, his grief and shock palpable even in the scant seconds Zack was close enough to perceive them. Zack does not think that he imagined the way Cloud lunged toward him, only to be held back by someone. He had been prepared to jump after him; what would Cloud do if he presumed him dead? 

“If he thinks I’m dead, would he even come here?” Zack mutters, staring down the aisle at the front doors. 

“Well,” Aerith says, drawing out the word, “judging by last night, he might go to Seventh Heaven first. Do you want me to head over there? Send him home if he does?” 

In his current mental state, there is no telling where Cloud might go, so it would be wise to spread their net to waylay him, wouldn’t it? And yet, the thought of being left alone at this moment fills Zack with unbearable dread. 

“Could you stay?” he whispers, leaning against her side. 

“Of course.” Aerith presses back against him, letting out a soft hum. “You owe me though. You’re not the only one waiting for their s-special someone to come back, you know.” 

Horrified, Zack jerks to face her, guilt slamming into him at the sound of her voice breaking. All this time, he was so focused on Cloud that he completely failed to realize that Aerith is in, if not the same boat as him, then in one floating parallel to his. “Gods, I’m such an asshole,” Zack mutters, frowning at himself, and then places his free hand on top of their joined ones. “Tifa was completely fine when I last saw her. She’ll be okay. She’ll come back.”

Despite Aerith’s earlier cheerfulness― _forced_ cheerfulness, he now realizes―her eyes narrow, squinting in pain. As though finding a loophole, Zack’s own doubts diminish, disappearing in the face of a friend in need of comfort. “ _She has a good reason to come back_ ,” he asserts before dropping her hand and pulling her into an encompassing embrace.

“It’s not really a matter of her _choosing_ to come back,” Aerith whispers into his shoulder, her tone clearly aiming for levity. 

“True, but she’ll try harder if she has a reason, don’t you think?” he replies, the words coming to him slowly as realization suddenly strikes him. It must have been Tifa who stopped Cloud from jumping after him, protecting the blond from his own recklessness. And if Cloud has Tifa to think about, then they will have a far greater chance of returning. He would not risk her safety for his own ends. 

“Tifa is Cloud’s friend. He’ll make sure she gets away,” Zack says into Aerith’s hair, squeezing her shoulders in assurance. “And she’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Which means they’ll both be okay.”

“Yes,” Aerith says with a sniffle before slightly pulling back from the embrace, smiling, “they will be.”

“Do you want to go to the bar to wait for her?” Zack offers, deciding that, for Aerith’s sake, he can stand to be alone after all. “I’ll be alright.” 

Shaking her head, Aerith releases him and settles back to face the flower bed. “No, I think I’m needed here.”

Following her lead, Zack shifts and turns to the flowers with a sigh. It does not seem fair to prioritize his feelings, but he is all too familiar with Aerith’s particular brand of stubbornness, so there is not much that would convince her to leave him at this point. Regardless, it does nothing to assuage his guilt. He has been insufferably selfish as of late, thinking only of his own problems, his own hurts. The only times he has deigned to step outside his head was for Cloud, but there is a whole world of people out there beyond them. The absolute _least_ he could do is pay attention to Aerith, too.

“Aerith, I’m really sorry. I didn’t even consider how this would affect you. I’ve been so self-absorbed lately. It’s not right.” 

“It’s _okay_ , Zack,” Aerith replies, her tone steeling. “You just almost had a panic attack in front of me. You might have tunnel vision when it comes to Cloud, but I’m not going to blame you for that.” The last she says teasingly, perhaps hoping to get a playful rise out of him, but Zack barely notices, reeling at the concept that there is a name for what must have happened to him. He cannot tell whether this is a comfort or a further reason to worry.

“I still feel bad,” he admits, glancing at Aerith out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, for what’s it worth, I don’t think you’ve been self-absorbed. Not in a bad way, anyway,” Aerith amends with a flourish of her hand. “You’ve been through so much; I can’t even begin to imagine. It’s okay to take time for yourself to heal. And you know, you _are_ getting better. You don’t constantly act cheerful around me and Cloud anymore―did you notice? You’ve stopped pretending to be happy when you’re not.”

Zack frowns, staring at the flowers gently glowing in the dim light of dusk. Is that…true? Thinking back, he _had_ been more cheerful when he first arrived at Midgar, hadn’t he? It had been the only way to prevent the void that dwelled within him from engulfing him completely. Yet, Zack is happier now―he is certain of this―so why would he act less so? Is it because he no longer needs to compensate to hide his pain? Because he has begun to accept his emotions? Both? 

“That means I’m getting better?” he hedges, crossing his arms in lieu of hugging himself.

“Yes,” Aerith confirms with an emphatic nod. “You can’t get better if you don’t acknowledge how you actually feel.”

“I guess that makes sense. Still, I’ll be a better friend from now on, I swear.” 

Unsurprisingly, Aerith releases a loud groan before pushing him away with a burst of strength, forcing him to uncross his arms to catch himself. “You’re making it sound like you’ve been a jerk. Zack, you literally sneaked money into my house while making lunch for everyone. Stop being silly. No―” Aerith raises a finger toward the ceiling before pointing it directly at him, only inches from his face. “―not silly. Wrong! Stop being wrong.”

“I, uh―” Zack stammers, staring, cross-eyed, at her finger. “Okay?”

Huffing, Aerith retracts her hand, but not without giving him one last push. “Good. Anyway, you think I haven’t been distracted with my own life?” She raises her brows suggestively. “My own _affairs_?” 

“Oh?” Zack grins and nudges her back, remembering how intimately she and Tifa had spoken to each other at the bar, how they had completely lost track of time. “How’s that going, then?”

“It’s _good_.” Aerith smiles, her eyes crinkling with unmistakable happiness. “Wonderful, even! I’m almost certain she likes me back.” 

“Really? I never would’ve guessed,” Zack deadpans, adopting Cloud’s most unimpressed expression until he can no longer hold it, his mouth curving into a soft smile. 

“Oh, shut it. You don’t have a leg to stand on, you hypocrite.” Aerith places a finger against her chin, tapping it in a show of rumination. “How long have you been pining now?”

With a start, Zack realizes that he never had a chance to reveal that he is decidedly no longer pining. Now would surely be a good time to tell her, but shouldn’t he ask Cloud first whether this is something he is ready to share? If―no― _when_ he comes back? Suddenly vibrating out of his skin, Zack glances at the front doors, begging them to open. 

_Cloud, where are you?_

“I think Tifa and I are ahead of you two at this rate,” Aerith adds, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Though, we might have left it at an awkward place last night, what with Barret and the others returning…” 

No longer able to sit still, Zack jumps to his feet and shifts back and forth. “Are you mad about that?” he asks, remembering how Cloud predicted that she would be disappointed in them. “About us blowing up the reactors, I mean. About what Avalanche does. I mean, I only went because I wanted to protect Cloud―he’s the one pissed at Shinra. Barret’s the only one who doesn’t have a selfish reason. He wants to save the planet.” He pauses, frowning in realization. “I don’t know about Tifa though. I never asked. Did she ever tell you?” 

Aerith smiles briefly―ostensibly amused at his babble―and says, “Not really. Tifa only explained why they do what they do. Maybe they don’t have the best methods, but…” She bites her lip and shakes her head. “I’m conflicted. What Avalanche is doing might hurt people, but Shinra’s doing really bad things to the planet. I’ve heard it screaming.”

“Heard it?” Zack asks, glancing down at her with confusion. “You can hear the planet?” 

Aerith shrugs and pointedly looks away. Judging by her nonresponse, that was not a figure of speech. Zack can hardly imagine how this could be true, let alone why she had never mentioned it to him before, but he has seen his fair share of strange things over the years. The capacity to hear the planet is a bizarre concept, but it would not even top the list. Besides, if Aerith really is special in this way, then it would admittedly explain Shinra’s interest in her. 

“Well, all the more reason to save it, I guess,” Zack offers awkwardly.

Judging by how widely Aerith smiles up at him, it was the right thing to say. Zack returns the gesture, making sure to appear as encouraging as possible, but Aerith does not elaborate. She shifts over to crouch by the flower bed, effectively ending the conversation as she inspects the damage he inflicted with his fall. As much as he would like to press her for more details, his curiosity is far outweighed by his restlessness, so he leaves her be. 

Itching for something to do, Zack heads over to the nearest empty pew and begins to methodically remove his armor, setting it down upon the wood. Even after all the weeks of wearing civilian dress, it feels like peeling off a second set of skin. The pauldrons, the waist cuirass…they are familiar and comforting, a sharp contrast to how the Buster Sword hung at his back. Ironic, perhaps, considering that the former are directly attributed to Shinra, whereas the latter was always distinctly Angeal’s. 

The thought of his mentor, long gone, fills him with a dull ache. Zack quickly shoves the feeling away, knowing that it will only exacerbate his uneasiness. He has already taken to staring at the front doors, commanding them to open to reveal a blond shock of hair. He could not stand dealing with old grief on top of everything else.

“I’m sick of waiting,” Zack mutters, shaking his arms at his sides to fling off the tension. 

“You know what you two need?” Aerith muses, tone once again light. Zack turns to face her, ignoring the unpleasant sensation of having the doors at his back. “Phones! We wouldn’t be so twitchy if we could just call each other. Remember how I’d always bother you on missions?” 

“Aerith, you never _bothered_ me,” Zack insists automatically, barely registering the rest of her words in favor of reassuring her. It was not her fault, after all, that they could never quite figure out how to schedule their conversations in a timely fashion. “I liked talking to you. I wouldn’t mind that now either.”

“You say that,” Aerith says coyly, “but you can’t imagine how often I’d text you!”

“I’d deal. You’re right though. I do miss having one. I wonder if Barret has any burners.” 

His own phone had been issued by Shinra―and thus likely tapped by them as well―but it had made keeping in contact with his friends that much easier, and having one would surely have been useful _right now_. Then again, Zack cannot quite picture Cloud as the texting sort, so maybe the situation would have been exactly the same, only with the addition of Zack filling Cloud’s inbox with increasingly frantic voicemails. 

Amused despite himself, Zack smiles as he imagines Cloud’s face screwing up in annoyance as he listens to a barrage of messages. He doubts that Cloud would appreciate yet another way for Zack to keep tabs on him, but it might be worth it to acquire a pair solely for that sight alone. Or, maybe Cloud would not mind it at all. Maybe Cloud would be the one calling _him_. 

Zack is the one that fell, after all. 

The anxiety returns in a rush, zooming in on the memory of Zack panicking over Cloud’s whereabouts, only, this time, it layers the latter’s face atop his. He forces himself to breathe deeply through the vision, unwilling to let it get the better of him. It was painful enough living through it, but Cloud, having witnessed Zack’s supposed demise, must be experiencing it twofold. Zack fears to imagine what he is feeling right now, let alone what it might drive him to do. How would he himself react to seeing Cloud fall from such a height?

_I’d jump after him. Just like Cloud tried to._

Zack lifts a trembling hand and places it against his heart, not surprised to find it beating in double time. Aerith shoots him an alarmed glance, but does not otherwise react, watching him carefully. Loath to worry her further, he shakes his head, dropping the hand.

“It’s nothing. I’m―”

A door slams open behind him with a clatter, the sound echoing throughout the nave. Zack spins around to face it, only to find Cloud stood frozen in the doorway, his face lax with shock. He appears a little rough around the edges, but he is _alive_. The sight of him fills Zack with unimaginable relief, the fears that threatened to uproot his sanity dissipating from his lungs. Only the restlessness remains, crying out in anticipation of a reunion, itching to _touch_.

Cloud has yet to thaw out of his disbelief, so Zack steps forward, hoping to meet him at the doors, but it proves unnecessary. The moment he moves, Cloud snaps out of the spell and charges toward him at breakneck speed, so Zack extends his arms, and Cloud falls into them not a second later, catching him around the midsection in a crushing embrace. Zack returns it in equal measure, wrapping his arms across Cloud’s shoulders and pressing their bodies together without a care for the armor digging into his skin or the sword knocking against him.

 _I will not cry_ , Zack tells himself, blinking away his tears even as Cloud tucks his face into his neck, his breaths coming in labored and quick. Zack wants nothing more than to lean down and steady them with a prolonged kiss, but they are not alone, and what they have is still so new. Perhaps that would not be welcome right now. 

Instead, Zack reluctantly pulls away, just far enough to see Cloud’s face, and grins. “You saw me not that long ago, sunshine,” he quips, determined to lighten the mood. “You miss me that much?” 

Within the same breath, Cloud’s eyes widen in bewilderment and then narrow in anger. He releases Zack with a snarl of frustration, only to grab the front of his shirt and jerk him downward, aligning their faces.

“ _Fucker_ ,” Cloud bites out, and Zack does not even have time to be offended before he is dragged into a bruising―yet so very tender―kiss. 

In the back of his mind, Zack notes that he no longer has to broach the subject of whether to be open about their relationship, but, at the forefront, he is too engrossed in the meeting of their lips to give it a second thought, too _relieved_. Likewise, he expects Cloud to relax against him in turn, but his fingers clench in the folds of Zack’s shirt, pulling until the fabric is almost painfully taut. 

_He’s scared_ , he realizes with a pang.

Humming into the kiss, Zack carefully rubs his hands along Cloud’s shoulders, attempting to soothe the tension bundled there. Cloud’s mouth parts, softening in what feels like invitation, but when Zack shifts to press forward, Cloud tilts his head back, breaking away. 

“We’re never helping Avalanche again,” Cloud says, his voice raw and throaty, his eyes wild. “Fuck Shinra. Fuck Midgar. We’re getting out of this _fucking city_.” 

Cloud’s tight hold on him does not relent. It threatens to tear his shirt, but Zack could hardly care―what concerns him is the desperate fear lurking behind the vitriol. Zack has been plagued by that selfsame fear far too many times to count; the thought of Cloud experiencing the same is unacceptable. Keeping his movements slow, he slips his hands from Cloud’s shoulders, letting them slide against the curves of his neck, silently assuring him that he will not go far. Then, ever so gently, he takes hold of Cloud’s face and runs his thumbs along his cheeks.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, only to repeat it when Cloud’s eyes fall shut and his head dips forward. Zack resumes the careful strokes, reveling in the softness of his skin, and watches as Cloud’s features loosen. The grip on Zack’s shirt remains, but the fingers begin to uncurl, releasing some of the tension on the fabric. 

Distantly, Zack hears Aerith stand, so he releases Cloud’s face, places an arm across his shoulders and a hand on his side, and pulls the blond against his torso, granting him the choice to hide while he sorts through his emotions. Cloud does not take him up on it, but he does tilt his head away from Aerith’s direction and tip his forehead against Zack’s jaw. Embarrassed, most likely. 

Aerith, in the meantime, approaches slowly, making an effort to announce her presence with laden steps. Zack only raises his gaze to acknowledge her when she stops a few feet away, feeling oddly shy. The reason, of course, becomes immediately clear the second Zack looks at her: for all that her hands are splayed across her mouth in a play at concern, they do little to conceal the grin plastered across her face. She looks about a breath away from giggling in delight, her eyes dancing with a mantra of _I told you so_. 

_Don’t rub it in_ , Zack attempts to communicate in reply, raising his brows in self-deprecation. He is decidedly not looking forward to all the teasing in his future, especially considering that Aerith has literal weeks of material to work from. He makes a note to gather more dirt on her and Tifa, which, speaking of… 

“Sunshine?” 

Cloud does not immediately respond, seemingly caught in the undertow of his thoughts, but, eventually, he makes a little questioning sound and lifts his head, blearily focusing on Zack’s face. 

“Did everyone else make it out?” Zack asks carefully. “Tifa? Barret?”

After a tense moment, Cloud nods, shaky but unhesitating―and Zack and Aerith sigh as one, relieved beyond belief.

“Oh, that’s great to hear!” Aerith exclaims breathily, a hand pressed against her sternum. “Then, if you don’t mind me leaving, I think I’ll go over there to let them know you’re both okay―and check on them, too.”

Considering his and Cloud’s amorous display only minutes before, Zack imagines that Aerith knows perfectly well that they do not mind, but he still smiles and shakes his head. “Go ahead. We’re fine.” Zack glances down at Cloud for confirmation, but the blond has taken to staring blankly at Zack’s chest. “We will be,” he amends, softening his tone.

Aerith meets his gaze over Cloud’s head with a touch of worry, but Zack simply shakes his head again. Cloud, already feeling exposed, will not be open about his emotions until they are alone, and Zack is better suited to help him through them anyway. Aerith might be more intuitive in comparison, but he is not so dense as he purports to be―at least, not when it comes to Cloud. Besides, Aerith _needs_ to see Tifa. He can sense it in the way her feet point toward the exit, in how her fingers twitch at her side. He empathizes. 

“Okay,” Aerith says, still looking unsure. “I’ll see you two later, then.” She makes to turn, only to pause and glance back with a frown. “Cloud, don’t be too hard on Zack, alright? He was scared, too.” 

If Cloud reacts, then he cannot see it from this angle, but Zack sends Aerith a grateful look nonetheless. With that, she nods, scurries to the doorway, and waves before closing the door behind her―leaving them in awkward silence. Her parting words, though kind, only served to remind them how they ended up in this situation, with Cloud still clutching onto him as though he will disappear if he lets go. Zack knows he is largely to blame for this. He had not intended to fall, of course, but he would risk his life ten times over if it would save Cloud. He will not apologize for that. 

Steeling himself, Zack looks down. Cloud is still staring at his chest, but, after a moment, he raises his head, only to glare at Zack’s jaw instead. Nervous, Zack strokes his thumb against Cloud’s side in an attempt to pacify him, but the gesture quickly backfires, deepening his frown.

“Zack,” Cloud mutters, voice deadly quiet. “You pushed me away.” 

“I did,” Zack agrees readily, knowing how little thought―that is, no thought at all―it took to insert himself between Cloud and danger. It was all love and instinct, the two woven together so tightly that each is barely distinguishable from the other. “We would’ve both fallen if I hadn’t.” 

“ _Okay, so we would’ve both fallen!_ ” 

Awestruck, Zack can only stare as Cloud’s eyes spark with rage, as his fingers once again clench where they hold Zack in place. He is struggling to process the words, this concept of neither or both. For him, it has always ever been neither or Zack. If only one of them were to survive, it would not be him―it would be Cloud, for Zack could not exist in a world starved of him. 

And yet, to ensure Cloud’s life at the cost of his own…that is selfish, isn’t it? Zack spent so many weeks, consciously or otherwise, believing that his feelings for Cloud were unmatched, but, if that is not the case, then in what way would it be right to force Cloud to live with the burden of being the sole survivor? Is that how Zack would show his love?

Zack inhales sharply as Cloud’s expression suddenly crumples, giving way to grief. Swearing, he tightens their loose embrace, shifting to place a hand against Cloud’s nape. Miraculously, Cloud does not fight it, his need for solace seemingly overriding any residual anger. With a stuttering sigh, Cloud leans his forehead against the curve of his neck, releases his shirt, and timidly wraps his arms around Zack’s waist instead. 

Zack silently curses himself. For all that he was determined not to regret his actions, the feeling flows into him in a gush, riding in on the coattails of his thoughts of selfishness. He should have been faster; he should have made more of an attempt to return to Cloud’s side after they were separated; he should have grabbed Cloud with one hand and the edge of the walkway with the other. Just, _anything_ that would have shielded Cloud from the emptiness of loss.

“I’m sorry,” Zack murmurs. “I wasn’t thinking. Just reacting.” 

Cloud murmurs something, the words too quiet for Zack to catch. 

“What?”

“I said, I get it,” Cloud repeats, sounding defeated for all that he appeared ready to tear Zack apart only moments ago. “I get why you were so angry at me yesterday. When I helped Barret.” 

Zack blinks, surprised not at the comparison, but because he had not drawn it himself. And yet, at second glance, the two scenarios are not so similar after all―not in terms of their motivations, at least. For one, Cloud never intended to sacrifice himself, whereas Zack, although he would have preferred not to, would have. And as much as he had been angry at Cloud’s recklessness, it was not long before it molted into fear, but Cloud’s anger… It is far more justified.

“No, Cloud, you’re right to be angry. You _should_ be angry, but don’t compare this to that. Yesterday, I―” Zack runs his fingers through the short hairs on the back of Cloud’s head, basking in the calming motion. “I was angry, but not at you. Well, maybe a little at first,” he amends, wincing at the memory of snapping at Cloud, “but mostly, I was just _scared_. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Cloud shakes his head, his eyelashes leaving butterfly kisses on Zack’s neck. “I can’t believe I forgot what it felt like…” He trails off into silence, continuing to shake his head from side to side, Zack’s palm warming from the friction.

Worried, Zack gives a little hum, trying to still the increasingly frantic movements with his hand. He cradles the base of Cloud’s skull, applying just enough pressure to keep his head rocking only marginally. After another moment, Cloud stops moving entirely, and it is only then that Zack feels confident enough to ask, “Forgot what?”

Cloud raises his head and meets Zack’s gaze. “What it feels like to think you’re dead,” he replies, his lost expression a mirror to Zack’s own. “Why would I do that to you? I should’ve known how you’d react. I _know_ you. Why did I―?” Shutting his eyes, Cloud grabs the sides of his head, his elbows knocking against Zack’s chest as he claws at his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I made you _cry_. I’m sorry. _Fuck, I’m so sorry_.” 

Panicking, Zack does the first thing he can think of, which is to encircle Cloud’s wrists and try to gently pry him away. When that fails, he slides his hands underneath Cloud’s instead, threading his fingers through the soft spikes, and carefully presses into his temples, trying to distract him from his spiraling thoughts. Zack relents only when Cloud finally loosens his grasp, opening his eyes with a stuttering inhale.

“Cloud, it’s okay,” Zack says, barely managing to keep his voice steady. Releasing Cloud’s hair, he returns his hands to the base of Cloud’s head and tips it forward, gently knocking their foreheads together. “I forgive you, everything’s okay. I’m okay, we’re okay, _we’re okay_.”

Cloud shuts his eyes and leaves his forehead leaning against Zack’s. He is trembling, so Zack continues to murmur quiet and comforting platitudes, not fully aware of what he is saying, save that it is all declared with no lack of sincerity. Zack himself takes solace from the mumbled words, still reeling from the intensity of Cloud’s reaction―the intensity of Cloud’s _love_ for him. It only further proves what he realized: to die and leave Cloud alone would be tantamount to betrayal. 

“I’m sorry,” Zack repeats, feeling how Cloud’s brows furrow at the words. “I never wanted you to have to feel that again.”

For a time, Cloud does not respond, each moment heavy with his silence, but Zack waits without complaint, sneaking peeks at his face more out of desire than impatience. Eventually, Cloud’s eyes slit open, inadvertently catching him at it, but Zack does not look away. 

“You said you didn’t want to lose me,” Cloud mutters. With a huff, he leans away and glares at him. “Well, I _can’t_ lose you, so stop sacrificing yourself.” 

“Can’t?” Zack echoes, hearing the wonder in his own voice. 

Cloud’s glare only deepens at that, flicking away to a point somewhere beyond Zack’s shoulder. “No one’s ever cared about me the way you do.” He scowls―self-conscious, Zack realizes―before returning his gaze. “I can’t return the favor if you fucking _die_.” 

Despite the subtle plea in Cloud’s words―despite even _himself_ ―Zack hesitates. Habits are so very difficult to break, and even in the time spent convalescing in Midgar, he never did shake the desire to protect Cloud, to put him before his own needs―not that he ever tried. Even now, the notion repulses him, but to keep himself safe for Cloud’s sake…? Perhaps that is within his capacity. 

“Okay,” Zack says carefully, meeting Cloud’s eyes steadily. “I promise to try.” 

Cloud grumbles, murmuring something caustic under his breath. Penitent, Zack begins to run his fingers through the small hairs at the back of Cloud’s head, watching as the latter’s lids slowly fall to half-mast. Then, with a sigh, Cloud closes his eyes completely and cranes his head back, resting it in the cradle of Zack’s hands. He does not smile, but his mouth does soften, losing its severity.

Little by little, Cloud begins to relax, his muscles untensing in time to Zack’s affections. And yet, his anguish seems reluctant to leave him in full, manifesting in minute twitches and knit brows as it ambushes him with aftershocks. With all the remorse and fear and memories they were forced to dredge up, it is no wonder that it retains its grip on him. 

_I want to make you happy_ , Zack thinks, staring.

They are both alive and unhurt, so it follows that they should be happy. _Cloud_ should be happy. He deserves to be. And, if his roiling emotions are keeping him from that, then what Cloud needs is a distraction. What he _has_ is Zack, but doesn’t that equate to the same thing? 

Besides, maybe Zack deserves to be happy, too.

Ever so slowly, Zack ducks and places his mouth against Cloud’s jawline, not pressing, simply testing the waters for hazards. Cloud does not move away, so he explores further, sliding his lips downward, and listens to the hitches in the breaths billowing against his ear. Then, when Cloud threads his hands into Zack’s hair and gently tugs, he celebrates by finding Cloud’s mouth.

Zack closes his eyes and concentrates on the kiss, as determined to make Cloud happy as he is to show him just how much he is loved. Even if Cloud knows, even if he himself professed to it, that is no reason to leave it undemonstrated―or unrepeated. Intending to do just that, he breaks away, retreating only an inch, but Cloud follows, seemingly not minding as the kiss is immediately ruined by Zack’s smile. 

“Y’know, sunshine,” Zack whispers once Cloud has taken the hint, “I don’t _just_ care about you. I also want to _take care_ of you.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Cloud’s mouth. “And all that entails. In whatever way you’d want.”

“You’re the one that got hurt though.”

Zack pauses, confused, and leans away to see Cloud’s expression. It is…intent, but otherwise composed. “Y-yes?” he says, tilting his head. “So?”

“So you’re the one who needs taking care of,” Cloud replies matter-of-factly. His eyes, Zack realizes, are dark and knowing, surrounded by only a thin ring of Mako green. If there is a chance that he mistook Zack’s meaning, then it is undeniably small. 

“Oh.” Zack shifts nervously, suddenly finding himself out of his depth. Admittedly, he cannot say that he is averse to the notion of Cloud _taking care_ of him, nor is he unaffected―of which Cloud is well aware, given how his eyes gleam. “Is that, uh, something you’d want to do?”

In lieu of a response, Cloud smiles.

And, well, Zack may have begun his ministrations with the intention of focusing on Cloud’s needs, but who is he to say what those are? Cloud not only watched Zack fall, but also tore himself apart with guilt at how he had once treated him. If this is what Cloud needs to alleviate whatever pain he felt, he caused, then all the more reason to proceed. 

To comfort or be comforted―what is the difference, when it is the two of them?

“Alright.” Zack leans forward, placing his mouth just beside Cloud’s ear. “Come on, then, Cloud. Take care of me,” he beckons, low and sweet, and smiles when it elicits a shuddering breath. 

Then, as Cloud takes his face in his hands, shaking but so very careful, Zack finally closes his eyes and _lets go_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- It’s subtle, but what Zack realizes toward the end of the first scene is that Cloud is on the ace spectrum. In the original game especially, Cloud can so easily be interpreted as asexual―it’s awesome. I headcanon him as gray-ace in this particular fic. I just had to do something for my fellow aces and aros out there. Zack’s easy acceptance of Cloud’s orientation? That’s for you.  
> \- Maybe it’s just me, but I think it’s dumb as hell to situate the entrance to your secret underground hideout in the middle of a popular bar. Having to kick everyone out every time you want to go down there is not suspicious at all. A little passage underneath the stairs is definitely less glamorous than…whatever that pinball machine had going for it, but at least it’s also less obvious.  
> \- I did admittedly borrow the holographic president from the remake trailer. It made much more sense than having the actual president there in a reactor that’s about to freaking explode.  
> \- As you might have been able to tell by now, I don’t especially like rehashing canon scenes in my writing. From this point on, anything canon to the story that isn’t significant will be cut or glossed over, or else changed to fit my [queer] whims.  
> \- Nothing will ever convince me that Zack and Cloud aren’t both switches.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings  
> \- Brief discussions of consent in regard to sex work  
> \- Canon-typical violence

The first thing Zack becomes aware of upon waking is a soft warmth curled around him, breathing deeply against his back. The second thing, far off and therefore much less immediate, is the faint sound of knocking, announcing a visitor. It is not insistent enough to draw him out of his hazy state, so he ignores it, determining through the logic of dreams that a friend would simply return later, while a foe would not be knocking in the first place.

Distantly, Zack realizes that this would normally be the moment when he would startle awake in a furor of panic, hypervigilant of any possible threats to their safety. And yet, the thought of leaving the bed only tugs at him half-heartedly before it, too, burrows back into the blankets. He is far too comfortable, far too satisfied, to move, and these emotions are only amplified as memories of the night before―of _Cloud_ ―begin to trickle into the forefront of his mind.

Zack hides his smile against his pillow, reluctant to share it with anyone, lest the world attempt to take this feeling away from him. It is not quite happiness―at least, it is not solely that―but, kept safe within the arc of Cloud’s arm, Zack risks naming it: peace. 

Zack has not known this measure of peace in…a long time. He greets it like an old friend that has since grown into a stranger, catching it in a crushing embrace. He will not allow it to escape, and, judging by how steadily he holds Zack even in sleep, neither will Cloud. After yesterday’s scare, Zack doubts that this will change anytime soon. Although they were both thoroughly diverted by the night’s intimacies, Cloud’s movements, at times, were a touch frantic, betraying just how much fear he had harbored. And then, after, he insisted on crowding Zack against the wall, their backs to the world as they slept―and Zack did not mind at all.

Even now, the weight of Cloud resting against his back is a strange yet wholly welcome comfort. It is new, this notion of letting someone take care of _him_ , but Zack remembers playing with it once or twice, inspecting it from a distance. Then, it had felt undeserved; now, it is a relief. He knows that he has a long road still to walk before he is even remotely healed from…everything he underwent, but around Cloud, he can show his true self, cracked and scarred as it might be. 

The sound of knocking comes again, brief but a tad louder. Cloud stirs, grumbling under his breath, so Zack carefully rotates, slips his arm around his waist, and touches their foreheads together, determined to soothe his disquiet. He peeks at Cloud when the latter immediately melts into the embrace with a contented hum. It is yet early morning, so the sun is casting its rays across the nave, leaving Cloud’s face in shadow while illuminating his hair in a halo. Zack has never encountered a lovelier sight. 

Smiling, Zack angles his head to catch Cloud’s mouth with his own―and stiffens with fear at the sound of a door creaking open. 

“Maybe we should wait?” whispers a voice, wary but _familiar_ , and Zack immediately relaxes, huffing out his relief.

“This _can’t_ wait,” replies what is undeniably Aerith’s voice, moving down the aisle. “It’s too important.” 

Belatedly, Zack realizes that, on top of the fact that he and Cloud are resting in a decidedly intimate position, neither of them are wearing shirts, let alone pants. The blanket is kindly remedying the latter issue, but they are not exactly fit for company, and he knows that Cloud, private by nature, would be embarrassed to be found like this. Thus, panicking, Zack does the first thing that his sleep-addled mind can think of, which―as Aerith exclaims a contrite “whoops”―is to roll on top of him.

Cloud grunts out a labored breath. “Zack? Wha’re doin’?” 

“Protecting your virtue,” Zack replies nonsensically, reaching back to pull the blanket up to their shoulders. 

“My wha’?” Cloud mumbles, scrunching his face in an unfairly adorable manner. It takes considerable effort to look away from him, but Zack manages it, if only just, and turns his head to greet their impromptu guests. Tifa, waiting partway down the aisle, is pointedly looking elsewhere, but Aerith, standing at the border of the flower bed, makes no attempt at extending the same courtesy.

“Good morning,” Zack says as nonchalantly as is humanly possible. Below him, Cloud mutters a string of expletives, seemingly aware that they are no longer alone.

“Good morning!” Aerith chirps, wringing her hands even as she smiles. “I’m sorry we barged in, but we really need to talk to you. It’s important.” 

“Important?” Zack repeats, struggling to catch up as the last remnants of sleep finally leave him. What could be more important than a quiet morning spent lazing about with Cloud in his arms? Well, plenty of things, admittedly, but important enough that it should _impede_ on said morning? “We can’t talk later?” 

Aerith shakes her head, wincing as her smile becomes a grimace. “We really can’t. Sorry.” 

“We brought breakfast though,” Tifa calls from down the aisle, raising a wrapped bundle. “I made it myself.” 

As though responding to a siren call, Cloud’s stomach growls, and Zack’s own whines in empathy. Loath as he is to admit it, food might be just a touch more important than spending the morning in bed, if only because they both skipped dinner last night in favor of attending to each other. He sighs to himself, entertaining, for just a moment, the thought of kicking the women out anyway, but quickly waves it away. There will be other mornings, he tells himself, just as there will be other nights.

“Alright, just, ah―” Zack glances around the nave, failing to spy any of his clothes but recalling a particularly memorable instance of having flung them…somewhere. “Er, could you give us a few minutes?” 

“Of course. We’ll be right outside.” Aerith turns and walks toward Tifa to usher her back to the front doors, only for Tifa to wrap a hand around Aerith’s wrist and tug her away at an even quicker pace. “Come get us when you’re ready!”

Zack calls out his assent as a door swings shut to grant them a moment of respite. He does not especially wish to move, but remaining where he is would not be conducive to leaving bed, so he shifts off of Cloud and settles at his side, watching him get his bearings. Cloud is slow to fully wake, but, little by little, his expression drains of crankiness and finally clears the moment his eyes find Zack’s. 

Interruption aside, Zack cannot imagine wanting to wake up to anything but this. 

“I think I spent half the night with your hair in my mouth,” Cloud murmurs, blinking heavily. 

Zack barks out a laugh, the sound getting stuck in his throat as a result of his morning rasp. “Sorry. I did warn you.” 

“I know.” Stifling a yawn, Cloud shrugs, his shoulder poking out from underneath the blanket. It proves so distracting that Zack nearly misses when Cloud resumes speaking, his tone much softer than before. “I wanted to hold you for once.”

Deep in his chest, Zack’s heart sings a tender tune, doing its utmost to encompass all the feelings currently ebbing to-and-fro from the top of his head to the tips of his limbs. Humming a single note of the melody, Zack scoots closer and releases Cloud’s waist to cradle his cheek instead. “I’m not complaining,” Zack murmurs, reveling in how Cloud tips his head to press against his hand. “As long as we’re together, I don’t care about the details.” 

“ _Sap_ ,” Cloud retorts. The word was, perhaps, intended as an insult, but the effect is dampened when the skies finally clear to make way for Cloud’s smile, small but sincere. Unable to help it, Zack drops his gaze to stare and, wearing a smile of his own, thumbs at the upturned corner of Cloud’s lips. 

“There’s my sunshine,” Zack whispers and then proceeds to bite back his chuckle as Cloud’s eyes widen in shock. Not a second later, Cloud’s hands dart up to hide them from view, slamming across his face as a groan escapes him. Normally, this would be a cause for concern, but Zack can still see the smile peeking out from behind his hands, so, loath to miss an opportunity to tease, he crowds into Cloud’s face, pressing into his cheek.

“Oh, no!” Zack exclaims and throws a leg over, effectively trapping him. “We’re getting some cloud cover!” 

“ _That’s_ what that is?” Cloud moans, his voice muffled. 

Zack grins as he settles more comfortably on top of Cloud, shifting to wrap his hands against his wrists. To think that Cloud would endure weeks of Zack using such an affectionate nickname, only to now fall apart from embarrassment despite everything that has been shared―in _and_ out of bed―between them. 

“What else would it be? You said yourself I’m a sap,” Zack teases, lightly tugging at Cloud’s arms in an attempt to uncover his face. “Come on, Cloud, I want more of my sunshine.” 

“Go away.” Judging by his playful tone, Cloud is obviously joking, but Zack cheerily complies anyway, practically springing away from him to plop back onto the pallet. Although he already regrets his empty arms, his retreat at least succeeds in recapturing the attention of Cloud, who jerks his face away from his hands to stare at Zack in surprise. 

“What? No, come back,” Cloud demands in a rush, grabbing Zack’s arm insistently.

Zack chuckles as he lets himself be pulled back and deposited against Cloud’s chest. Perhaps he should not glean so much glee from Cloud’s consternation, but the latter openly expressing his desire to be close to Zack has yet to lose its novelty. Not that…Cloud had ever strayed far from Zack, now that he thinks about it, but―if Cloud pined even a fraction of how long Zack had―it must be freeing to be able to say it out loud. 

“You gotta mean what you say, sunshine,” Zack quips, moving so that his face is aligned with Cloud’s, which is far from amused, if the narrowing eyes are any indication. “Gotta want it.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Cloud says slowly, and Zack grins at the challenge in his voice, softening at how his hands snake up to caress Zack’s nape. “In that case, I want you to―”

Both men jolt at the sudden shriek of high-pitched laughter coming from outside, the sound as effective a mood killer as any. Grieving their lost moment, Zack groans and drops his head against Cloud’s chest, knocking his forehead lightly a few times before letting it rest there. He has a bottomless well of love for Aerith, but he wishes he had had the foresight to install a working lock on the doors, or at least a latch, for the sake of their privacy. 

Still, it is with no lack of melancholy that he realizes that this will not remain an issue if they follow through on their plans to leave Midgar―unless he could convince Aerith to join them, in which case the problem would arise again because Zack would cave and give her a copy of the key anyway. And yet, would that be so bad? He had built up this little house in his mind, filling it with Cloud and pets and love, but what is a home that does not welcome friends? 

“I swear I’ll find us a proper home,” Zack mutters wistfully, faltering as Cloud’s hands leave his neck to thread through his hair, “even if I have to build it myself.” 

“I’ll help you. Knowing you, you’d probably mess up the plumbing.” 

Zack chuckles against Cloud’s skin, closing his eyes as he imagines, with a touch of hysteria, attempting to navigate the perils of building a home from scratch. Maybe they could start with a shack and work up from there―or, better yet, put their savings to good use and acquire a place not built by two well-intentioned but largely incompetent individuals. Regardless, this daydream of working side by side with Cloud to create something that is solely theirs easily slots into the vessels of his heart. It is not yet safe to be rooted to any one place, even if it is located far from Midgar, but perhaps that is something that awaits them, one day. 

With this thought in mind, Zack raises his head, leans in to _finally_ capture Cloud’s mouth…and promptly forgets that the future is not the only thing awaiting them.

As such, some indiscriminate amount of time passes before Zack―flushed, beaming, and, by some miracle, dressed―opens the door to fetch Aerith and Tifa, the former of whom matches his smile with a knowing glint in her eye. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Zack sputters, beckoning them inside. “Lost track of time. Thanks for waiting.”

“Don’t worry about it!” Aerith trills as she breezes past him, a bounce in her step. “You just won me five gil. I bet Tifa it would take you more than fifteen minutes to get ready.”

“I thought Cloud would be too embarrassed to start anything,” Tifa complains as she follows suit, smiling weakly at Zack’s undisguised surprise. 

“Charming,” Zack drawls, shutting the door behind them before trailing after. He decides not to be offended, but only in recompense for all the hours Aerith spent listening to him whine. If anyone is allowed some fun at his expense, it is her. Still, he must fail to mask his annoyance, for Aerith doubles back and threads their arms together, walking them down the aisle in a parodial fashion. 

“In all seriousness,” she says, smiling warmly, “we’re really happy for you both. And I meant what I said: we wouldn’t have bothered you if it wasn’t important.”

“It’s okay.” Finding that not even a tasteless bet can ruin his good mood, Zack smiles in return, patting her elbow in forgiveness. “Thank you. We’re happy, too.”

“Speaking of,” Tifa adds, dropping off her bundle on the pew by the lilies before crouching before it, “where’s Cloud?” 

Releasing Aerith’s arm, Zack jabs a thumb over his shoulder, barely containing a laugh as he recalls Cloud’s panic when the latter realized just how long they had lingered in bed. “Hiding in the washroom. He’ll just be a minute.” Grinning, Zack kneels to watch as Tifa begins to unwrap the bundle, only to be struck by the most welcoming smell when she lifts the container lid. 

“Is that tamagoyaki?” Zack whispers in awe, mouth watering at the sight of the yellow omelette resting on a bed of white rice. He groans lightly, clawing at his cheeks in mock despair. “Between your cooking and Cloud’s, I’m beginning to feel discouraged.” 

“You haven’t even tried it!” Tifa protests, chuckling. “But you’re right: it’s delicious.” 

“See? So unfair.” Zack reaches out for their bowls and unstacks them beside the tamagoyaki, of which there should be plenty to share, even taking into account ex-SOLDIER appetites. “I guess I’ll stick to compensating with chocobo art.” 

“I, for one―” Aerith steps into the row behind the pew and props her hands against its back, leaning forward to smile down at him. “―thought your chocobo omelette was cute.” 

“Luckily, so did Cloud.” Pausing, Zack squints. In retrospect, perhaps it was the act of cooking itself rather than the actual food which had brought the smile to Cloud’s face. Considering that Cloud’s immediate reaction had been to express a desire to return the favor, the theory has merit. “Or he thought the attempt was cute. Or, um, appreciated it, or something,” he amends, having trouble processing the concept of “cute” being in Cloud’s vocabulary.

Sitting down, Aerith crosses her arms against the edge of the pew, drops her chin atop them, and hums happily. “I think I can guess which.” 

Thankfully, Zack is saved from having to reply when the door to the washroom swings open, causing Tifa to call out, “Cloud, you cost me five gil!” 

“Oh. Sorry?” 

Already smiling, Zack peeks at Cloud from out of the corner of his eye, only to turn his head fully toward him a second later, unable―and unwilling―to fight the pull. Staring at Tifa in confusion, Cloud does not meet his gaze, so Zack takes a moment to marvel at him standing against the light, clothed in both sun and darkness. Cloud even donned the black sweater Zack once gifted him, adding to the contrasting impression. It hugs his waist as closely as Zack had held it the night before; he nearly envies it this, but allows the trespass because it lets him appreciate Cloud’s figure even from a distance. 

“Don’t mind her,” Aerith chirps, her words barely registering through Zack’s daydreams. “Tifa’s just bitter because she lost.” 

Cloud nods, seemingly at ease to do just that, and finally glances over, catching Zack’s eye. Whatever he finds on Zack’s face must be quite something, for his lips immediately curve into a smile―that, or the sole sight of Zack is enough to warrant such a reaction, and is that, from someone so reserved, not a wonder? 

“Zack, do you have any more bowls?” 

Reluctantly, Zack turns back to face Tifa, who has begun to divvy up the food into the two bowls he provided. “Sorry, no. Cloud and I can share from the container though.” He chuckles as he imagines owning a complete set of dinnerware, having to set it out in a row along a pew with nowhere else to store it. “We’re not used to entertaining.” 

“People who show up this early should know to bring their own bowls,” Cloud remarks, appearing on Zack’s left. Zack cranes his head back to stare at him, and Cloud returns the look fondly, momentarily pressing his thigh against his shoulder. 

“Mm, too true,” Aerith murmurs, her eyes half lidded as they dart back and forth between the two men. “An oversight on my part.” 

“It’s fine,” Zack assures even as he wonders whether Aerith is wily enough to stage a need for two of their party to sit close together and, consequently, whether it was actually intended for her and Tifa. 

Attempting to appear casual, Zack conducts his own inspection, glancing at the two women in search of any noticeable differences in their mannerisms toward each other and admittedly finding none. Still, Aerith had left the church the evening before to check on Tifa, but, considering the earliness of the hour, it stands to reason that she never bothered to return home before this morning’s visit. Then again, Tifa did say that Seventh Heaven had an extra room available, so perhaps he is just reading into what is otherwise an innocent circumstance.

As though hearing the tail end of Zack’s trail of thought, Aerith catches his eye and winks, the gesture so brief and inconspicuous that he wonders whether he imagined it after all. 

“Anyway,” Zack says after a stunned moment, shooting Aerith one last suspicious look, “what did you need to talk to us about?”

“Later,” Tifa says, handing Aerith a bowl full of rice and egg. “Breakfast first.” 

Food in hand, the group settles on the floor, Zack and Cloud choosing a spot on the steps to the altar, container held aloft between them, while Aerith sits beside her flowers, Tifa not far from her. For a time, they focus on the meal, each appreciating―in between murmurs of delight―the quiet of morning and the satisfaction of sharing it with those they love. In turn, Zack sneaks glances at each of his friends, lingering, ultimately, on Cloud, who leans against Zack’s side as he eats, still shaking off sleep. It feels like having a family again. It feels like _home_. 

“Thanks, Tifa―that was delicious,” Cloud says when the container is finally empty, Zack nodding in agreement. “Now, stop stalling. What’s up?”

Smiling, Tifa winces and shakes her head apologetically. “Right, sorry. The thing is…I need your help.”

Zack straightens in anticipation, responding to some residual drive that activates at the innocuous phrase. It does not go unnoticed by Cloud, who, knocked away from slouching against Zack, throws him a brief but amused look before beckoning Tifa to continue. 

“After we got back from the reactor and I reopened the bar, there was this strange man hanging around, bothering our regulars.” Frowning, Tifa sets aside her bowl in favor of clenching her hands together. “Barret overheard him asking about Avalanche, so he…interrogated him. The guy mostly just babbled a bunch of nonsense, but a name did pop up: Don Corneo.” 

“Corneo?” Cloud asks, tilting his head.

“A criminal,” Zack answers warily, dreading the direction this conversation is headed. “He runs the Wall Market. Even my boss has to defer to him.” _Not that she acknowledges it_ , Zack adds to himself, recalling a particularly memorable instance of passing by Verre in the Honey Bee’s corridors as she ripped Corneo a new one over the phone. 

“Right. Barret said to leave it alone, but I don’t know. Something about how the guy spoke…” Tifa momentarily closes her eyes and grimaces. “I can’t shake the feeling that Avalanche is in trouble, so I want to confront Corneo myself, and that’s where I need help.”

“You wanna infiltrate his mansion?” 

“In a sense, yes,” Tifa confirms. 

Zack squints as he pictures the armed guard outside the immense building undoubtedly hiding another score of gang members inside. Despite his years of fighting experience, neither he nor Cloud are especially trained in stealth, so he cannot imagine how they could improve the situation, save for providing a distraction. Still, if this is indeed a mission for Avalanche, then, after Cloud’s vehement refusal to help the rebel group again, perhaps he would not agree to even that much. 

Zack glances at Cloud to gauge his expression, only to find him looking conflicted, his brows knitting in concern. With a wince, he turns back to Tifa and, pointing between himself and Cloud, asks, “Sorry, can you give us a sec? Real quick.” 

“Oh, uh― Sure?” Brows raised, Tifa scoots away a few feet to sit by Aerith, who greets her with a brimming smile and leans in to begin a hushed conversation of their own. 

Satisfied that they will not be overheard, Zack shifts to face Cloud and mutters, “Cloud, last night, you said―” 

“I know,” Cloud replies, his eyes sliding downward. Patiently, Zack waits. He could list any manner of reasons to avoid siding once more with Avalanche, starting from the innumerable hazards Corneo presents to their plans to leave Midgar behind. However, none of these would matter if Cloud’s obligation to his friend overcame any such misgivings, and that same desire to help is pulling at Zack in turn, outweighing the temptation toward quiescence. 

“I know,” Cloud repeats quietly before lifting his palms and shrugging weakly, “but it’s Tifa.”

“Alright.” Zack smiles, unsurprised to find that the words bring relief. Avalanche or not, he could never live with himself if Tifa were to get hurt while he stood idly by, especially by the likes of Corneo. “So we’ll help,” he offers, and Cloud, whether out of gratitude or spontaneity, confirms the decision with a quick hug, darting away before Zack can respond in earnest. 

_Just as well_ , Zack thinks with a wry grin, registering how quickly Aerith’s head swivels to stare gleefully in their direction, Tifa copying her not a second later, if more sedately. “So, what did you have in mind, Tifa?” he asks weakly, shifting back to face the women. “Corneo’s place doesn’t look like an easy place to sneak into.” 

“It doesn’t, but I’m not going to be sneaking in,” Tifa replies, shaking her head. “See, rumor has it that Corneo’s looking to settle down, and that he’s turned to the Honey Bee to send him potential brides. And, well―” Tifa falters, causing Zack’s mounting panic to spike as the points begin to connect, creating a ghastly image. “Zack, I need you to get me on that list.”

“Whoa, whoa, _what_? Tifa, that is _not_ a good idea!” Zack protests, nearly launching himself forward in shock. From the little that he has managed to glean about Corneo from his fellow coworkers, he is infamous around the Honey Bee―if not for the frequency of his patronage, then for his tastes. He feels sick at the thought of Tifa ending up in a situation where she could not refuse him. “There’s gotta be a better way to get a, a, an _appointment_ with that creep.” 

“Maybe,” Tifa allows, rocking her head sideward, “but this is the fastest way, and we don’t have time to waste.” 

Perturbed, Zack glances at Aerith for backup, but her expression is as determined as Tifa’s, betraying no doubts and, consequently, taking him aback. If Aerith is willing to let her walk into the behemoth’s maw, then it must be for a good reason. Whatever danger Tifa suspects might befall Avalanche must be real, or is at least dire enough that it demands investigation. Still, in a last-ditch effort, Zack turns to Cloud, looking to him to steer them back to safer waters.

However, to Zack’s dismay, Cloud appears thoughtful, dashing all his hopes when he opens his mouth to say, “You at least shouldn’t go alone.”

“And she won’t!” Aerith pipes up cheerfully, capturing everyone’s attention. “I’ll be going with her.”

“What? Aerith, no!” Tifa exclaims, her eyes widening. _This_ , it seems, the two did not previously discuss. Zack’s heart goes out to Tifa, both as Aerith’s friend and as someone whose own love does not always take his safety into account. He resigns himself to stepping back from this conversation: if Aerith has made up her mind, then there is little that he can do to prevent the plan from being enacted, even if it sits ill with him. 

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Aerith crosses her arms and pointedly raises her chin in Tifa’s direction. “If you’re going, so am I. Besides, you said yourself that Corneo chooses from three women, so we have to even our chances!”

In an ironic twist, Tifa looks at Zack, mouth agape, and lifts her palms in entreaty―as though Zack could have any sway over Aerith at this stage. 

“Hey, I’m not happy with the plan on principle, but it’s not like I can force either of you to reconsider. And―” Frustrated, Zack sighs, running a hand through his hair. “―I know you can take care of yourself, but you’ll both be safer together,” he concludes, only realizing after Cloud makes a little sound of agreement that this is originally Cloud’s sentiment, the words leaving Zack’s mouth without hesitation for all that he struggled to attribute them to his own relationship. 

“Exactly,” Aerith says, shooting Tifa a hard stare before resuming her smile, “and anyway, it won’t just be the two of us. If we want to fill out our ranks, Cloud’s going, too!”

“I am?” Cloud asks, oblivious to how Zack’s gut clenches at the thought of him anywhere within reach of Corneo’s clutches. Zack shoots Aerith a betrayed look, but she does not even deign to meet it, too occupied with smiling at Cloud’s blatant confusion.

“I don’t think that’d work,” Zack cautions, struggling to breathe through the possessive urge to grab hold of Cloud and never let go. “From what I’ve seen, Corneo never asks for the male workers.” 

“Oh, I’ve already considered that,” Aerith replies, her smile widening as Zack’s eyes narrow. “Cloud won’t be going as a boy.”

Zack blinks and, in tandem with Cloud, says, “What.” 

\--- 

“This is a terrible idea,” Verre declares from behind her desk, fingers steepled against her forehead. After a strained moment, she drops her hands and pointedly turns to stare at Zack, who had previously retreated to the wall by the window to avoid this very circumstance. 

“Hey, don’t look at me!” he protests, lifting his palms in surrender. “It wasn’t my idea. I’m the one who tried to stop them!” 

“Clearly, you did not try hard enough,” Verre concludes and shifts to face Tifa and Aerith―both of whom had claimed the only chairs in the office―and Cloud, who hovers behind them in a play at parade rest, seemingly as intimidated by Verre as Zack had first been. “Need I remind you that, along with the fact that all three of you lack experience in this line of work―” Raising her brows, Verre points directly at Cloud. “―one of you quite literally has Mako eyes?”

“I’m hoping Corneo won’t get close enough to tell,” Cloud deadpans, inspiring Verre to lift her gaze to the heavens, visibly aggrieved. 

Wordlessly, Zack concurs with her, glancing over to give him a considering look. Cloud has remained largely quiet ever since Aerith laid out the extent of their plans to reach Corneo; Zack has followed his example, if only in an attempt to suppress his anxiety at sending not only his love, but also his friends, into the den of a lech. 

However, if Cloud shares any of his concerns, then he has not shown it, hiding them beneath a layer of awkwardness stemming from, Zack assumes, the prospect of having to cross-dress. Back at the church, Cloud briefly expressed his doubts about it working, but Aerith only assured him that he could easily pull off the look. Distracted by worry, Zack has barely had time to ponder the notion, but as he stares at Cloud’s profile, his slumbering curiosity awakens. He cannot help but agree.

“Speaking of,” Verre says, pulling Zack out of his reverie with a knowing glance, “where are your sunglasses, Strife?” 

As Zack proceeds to scream internally, Cloud narrows his eyes and replies, “I don’t have any. Why, d’you think Corneo would be into that?” 

“No, I was―” 

“Yeah, no,” Zack babbles, sending Verre an apologetic look for the interruption, “that would probably just bring more attention to Cloud’s eyes. Let’s nix that.” Zack then determines that Verre must have a soft spot the size of Gaia for him, because she thankfully only serves him a blank stare before dropping the subject entirely. 

“Well, setting aside those details,” Verre drawls, twining her fingers together, “what are you then planning on doing once you reach the man in question?” 

“We need to interrogate him,” Tifa replies, leaning forward. “We think he has some important information we need.”

“Information?” Verre repeats, her thumbs tapping against each other. “You do realize that I will be putting my business in peril with this endeavor? Corneo will not respond kindly to me sending him three spies, you know. I’m sorry, but if I don’t have a better incentive than ‘information,’ important though it may be, I cannot help you.” 

Verre falls silent, seemingly waiting for elaboration, but Tifa only shifts in place, biting her lip when Aerith throws her a questioning glance. Zack, in the meantime, weighs his odds against his desires. The last thing he wants is for any of his friends to cross paths with Corneo, but, if they are to be refused here, then Tifa and Aerith would undoubtedly approach his abode on their own―and Cloud would follow out of obligation. However, with Verre’s help, not only are they more likely to succeed in getting past the guard, but they will be safer if Corneo believes them to be protected sex workers. Thus, this route is wiser.

Convincing Verre, of course, is another matter entirely, but showing their hand might be enough to sway her. After all, Zack has long since suspected that she has no love lost for Shinra. Anyone living in the slums already has reason to dislike its rule, but not only did Verre take Zack’s Mako eyes in stride, but she was also quick to hide his employment at the Honey Bee. In this, he believes that she can be trusted. 

So, bracing himself, Zack pushes away from the wall and approaches the desk, crossing his arms as Verre looks up at him. “Do you know the group Avalanche?” he asks. Her eyes sharpen at the name, watching him closely. “We think Corneo’s planning something against them, but we don’t know what it is unless we get it outta him.” 

Maintaining eye contact, Zack prays that Verre’s involvement with Corneo is a reluctant alliance at best, if not the result of intimidation. He is perfectly aware that she would win any staring contest she deigned to enter, but he maintains that he deserves a badge for how long he lasts without withering under her gaze. Thankfully, before Zack’s resolve can crumble, she looks away to target Tifa instead, who sits upright at the attention. 

“The Honey Bee is scheduled to escort three candidates to Corneo’s residence this evening at six,” Verre announces, her expression perfectly even. “If you want any hope of being ready by then, you’ll need to visit the boutique here at the Wall Market. Tell Li Wei that Verre sent you. He rarely does bespoke these days, but that should light a fire under him. Besides―” She glances at Cloud, giving him a once-over. “―he might appreciate the challenge.” 

Cloud screws up his face in annoyance at that, but whatever goodwill Verre holds toward Zack must transfer to him, for she merely quirks a brow before her gaze slides away. “A welcome challenge,” she clarifies, “for which I would be happy to foot the bill.” 

Zack gapes in shock, revising his assessment of Verre’s dislike of Shinra and upgrading it to hatred. Tifa, staring blankly, must feel similarly. It takes her a second, but she recovers, dipping her head in gratitude as she stutters out a heartfelt thank you. 

“Well, why miss an opportunity to bite back at the hand that feeds?” Verre asks, appearing, for the first time this morning, tired. If she were anyone else, Zack would squeeze her shoulder in solidarity, but he has not yet fully conquered his healthy fear of her, so he refrains, but only just.

“Thank you,” Zack says instead, earning an amused glance. 

“Give ‘em hell,” Verre drawls and then smiles when it surprises a laugh out of him. “Now, stop wasting time. Li Wei does not like to be rushed, and you have only so many hours to work with.” All hints of her previous exhaustion gone, she pushes away from the desk and stands to corral them to the door, physically shooing them out. Not used to her manner, Aerith, Tifa, and Cloud practically stumble into each other as they evacuate, Zack trailing after them far more peaceably. “Thomas will meet you here to escort you to Corneo’s, but you will need to be there no later than six. Do _not_ be late.” 

“You can count on us,” Zack calls, saluting as he exits, prompting Verre to scoff before closing the door behind him. 

Outside in the corridor, Aerith and Tifa are waiting for him not two feet away, oddly intent. Furrowing his brows, Zack parts his mouth in question, only to find himself staggering back as the women launch themselves forward, wrapping their hands around his arms and rocking him from side to side.

“Zack, that was great!” Aerith whispers excitedly even as Tifa chitters her thanks on his other side. 

“I…literally just name-dropped Avalanche.” Confused, Zack glances back and forth between the women, letting himself be pulled along the corridor toward Cloud, who waits by the stairs with what can only be called a long-suffering expression. “It wasn’t hard.”

“Sure, but she wouldn’t have been so accommodating if not for you!” Aerith trills and releases Zack as they arrive at the landing. Then, sending Cloud a speculative look, she adds, “Thanks to her, we’ll even be able to afford a custom dress for Cloud.” 

Zack winces as Cloud glares at her, able to parse―where Aerith might not―the genuine annoyance the remark yields. Whether it is a result of the parameters of the mission, the cross-dressing itself, or something else entirely, Zack cannot tell, but he knows Cloud well enough to understand that he must resent the attention. However, before he can fathom how to distract Aerith, Thomas manages to do it for him by appearing at the bottom of the stairs and beckoning them down. 

“Verre texted to say you’d finished,” he calls. “Let me walk you out.”

Zack leads their way down and follows Thomas through the lobby, sneaking worried looks at Cloud as his mind begins to wander back toward stormy imaginings. Distantly, he spares Thomas a friendly if perfunctory wave goodbye as they exit, but if the man replies, then Zack does not register it. The courtyard outside, appearing gray beneath the unlit neon signs, is empty and quiet, but the sounds of a waking market begin to grow as they leave the Honey Bee behind. Mired in thought, Zack unconsciously slows his pace, and Aerith and Tifa overtake him, walking ahead as they talk, heads tilted together in confidence. 

“I can hear you thinking.”

Cloud’s voice, free from distress, has always held the power to calm him, so Zack does not startle at having his solitude broken, but he does instinctively step closer to the sound before turning his head. Cloud watches him steadily as they plod along, his hands stuffed into his pockets. The spark of annoyance Aerith needled out of him seems to have disappeared, leaving affected indifference in its place. 

Staring, Zack cannot help but think that he is so very lovely…and that Corneo will undoubtedly notice this as well. 

Acting on impulse, Zack reaches out an arm and settles it across Cloud’s shoulders, gathering him in as close as possible and causing them both to stumble. Normally, Zack would expect Cloud to tolerate his need for contact with resigned patience, but the blond neither sighs nor shies away. Instead, he places a hand on his mid back―presumably to steady himself―and proceeds to leave it there. The touch, warm and steadfast, has the immediate effect of releasing the tension Zack holds in his shoulders, leaving him far more clearheaded. 

Shooting Cloud a wry smile, Zack loosens his arm and resumes their stride. He focuses on the pressure on his back as he attempts to piece together his thoughts into one Cloud would not take offense at, loath to poke at his sore spots. Still, Cloud has seen firsthand the terror putting himself in danger evokes in Zack, so perhaps he will forgive him the concern. 

“I’m worried,” Zack finally admits, lowering his pitch to avoid attracting their friends’ attention. “I don’t want any of you to end up having to do something you don’t want to do. I-if it comes to that, just blow your cover.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll crush his nuts before that happens,” Cloud replies easily, causing Zack to wince in instinctual sympathy. “I might anyway.”

Zack chuckles at Cloud’s wistful tone, prompting the latter to smirk with self-satisfaction. “Whatever gets you out of there faster, especially since―” He squeezes Cloud’s shoulders, bringing attention to the void at his back. “―you can’t take the sword with you.” 

Cloud scoffs, craning his head to fix Zack with a knowing look. “Like I’d be able to take it from you in the first place. You probably plan to stake out Corneo’s place with that thing.”

Zack shrugs, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. Although he had admittedly not planned that far ahead, the idea is tempting―not that he could carry the Buster Sword anywhere in the vicinity of Corneo’s mansion without attracting undue attention. However, in one thing, Cloud is egregiously wrong: Zack would entrust the sword to him in a heartbeat.

“I have that knife you gave me though,” Cloud says as he shifts his hand, smoothing it along Zack’s spine until it reaches the space between his shoulder blades. “I’ll be fine.”

Zack leans into the touch, breathes in deeply, and says, “Okay.” Then, he repeats it for good measure, nodding. As much he would like to wrap Cloud in layers of armor and hide him away, that would only foment resentment. They are no longer on the run, nor is Cloud catatonic―he is capable of protecting himself. If Zack is unwilling to leave the wilds of Gaia behind, then they will remain in his heart and infect it with fear, but this is not a version of himself that could live in the world he wants to build with his love. Cloud does not need a Zack that coddles him―he needs a Zack that will stand at his side. 

And so, Zack resolves to be just that. 

He begins to remove his arm from Cloud’s shoulders, reluctant to crowd him any further, only to pause when the blond shoots him a pointed glance. With a tentative smile, Zack slides his arm back to its previous position until Cloud, looking much more relaxed, turns back to face the path. Not a second later, his brows drop to form a glare.

“I wish Aerith would cool it on playing dress-up though,” Cloud grumbles. Zack follows his gaze to the two women walking ahead of them, immediately recalling Aerith’s innocent remark that left Cloud quietly fuming. 

“I didn’t get a chance to ask before,” Zack hedges, drawing out the words carefully, “but are you okay with that part of the plan? Wearing a dress?” 

Admittedly, cross-dressing sounds like a lark compared to the rest of the mission, but Cloud must not agree. Considering how defensive he becomes whenever his strength is questioned, perhaps he would associate his appearance with weakness. After all, beauty in a man, let alone Cloud’s ethereal brand of it, can invite scores of unwanted attention. Tifa even admitted that he did not get along with other kids his age: slight, lovely, and _angry_ , he would have stood out as an outsider. 

“I don’t know what to expect, but it’s just fabric,” Cloud replies, shrugging underneath Zack’s arm. He is the very picture of nonchalance, but Zack does not fail to notice how quickly his eyes dart around, his brows twitching once before relaxing. 

“You don’t look sure,” Zack remarks and then inwardly sighs when Cloud meets his eyes with a hint of alarm. Normally, extracting information out of him requires a more delicate touch, but the boutique looms in the near distance, threatening to cut their time short. Hence, Zack slows his steps until Cloud takes the hint, slowing in turn. “Come on, Cloud, talk to me.” 

Cloud huffs out a breath but briefly tilts his head, seemingly in capitulation. “I can deal with the dress,” he grumbles, “but the guard’s gonna take one look at me and tell me to fuck off.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Next to those two―” Cloud bobs his chin, pointing out Aerith and Tifa, who have since arrived at the boutique and stand waiting upon its threshold. “―I can’t compete. And that’s if I even pass as a girl. I might compromise the whole mission.” 

Zack retains an even expression, but only through a Herculean effort, clenching his jaw to avoid guffawing in disbelief. “Sunshine, I mean this in the best possible way, but that’s not gonna be a problem.”

“You think so?” Cloud asks, voice dripping with skepticism.

Zack has encountered this Cloud―insecure and evasive―before, but never has the reason for his diffidence been as unfounded as this. Cloud is, by all accounts, stunning―and would be regardless of his gender. Zack cannot begin to imagine what comments or treatment influenced Cloud to perceive himself thus, but it leaves him restless with the need to right a wrong.

“Yeah, I think so,” Zack says, stopping in his tracks, Cloud following suit not a second later. He glances up at Zack in confusion, but the latter merely ducks his head, not quite touching their temples together. “Cloud,” he whispers, watching how the blond’s pupils dilate, “if last night wasn’t enough to clue you into what I think of you, then maybe you need a refresher.” 

For all that he is shy, Cloud does not blush easily, which is a shame, Zack thinks, because the pink appears so readily against the paleness of his skin on the rare occasions that he does―such as now. It presents itself as a challenge, goading Zack to take Cloud aside and see if he can redirect the flush by skill alone, work him up into a fluster. 

Yet, before Zack can surrender to the impulse, Cloud clears his throat, breaking their eye contact to glance sideward. “Maybe not when they’re watching.” 

Blinking out of a haze, Zack turns his head, finds both Aerith and Tifa failing to pretend that they are not looking their way, and is promptly reminded that, not only are they in the middle of an errand, but they are also very much out in public. Cloud, at least, seems as disappointed as Zack feels about the circumstances, and it is with this consolation in mind that Zack clears his own throat and leans back.

“Good call,” he remarks and resumes their march, but not without whispering the promise of “later” that then echoes in Cloud’s shudder. 

\---

The boutique, despite being the only clothing shop for miles, is almost claustrophobically small, full of wares set out on shelves or hanging on the few available racks. Their band of four, clustered by the threshold and peering in with curious eyes, only adds to this impression of closeness. Luckily, the shop is empty of customers and thus can accommodate them, its sole occupant a bored-looking, short-haired woman who sits behind the cashier’s counter just to the right of the entryway.

“Welcome,” she chirps half-heartedly, not raising her head from the book spread across the countertop. 

“Hello,” Zack replies automatically, glancing around as though expecting Li Wei to materialize out of thin air. Aside from the counter and a fitting “room”―an alcove hidden by a curtain―the only thing of note besides the clothes themselves is the open doorway leading to what Zack suspects must be the workshop. “I wonder if you could help us,” he says, stepping up to the register. “We’re looking for Li Wei.”

The name works like a charm, causing the distracted shopkeeper to finally look up. “Li Wei is my father,” she answers, closing her book and tucking it underneath the counter. “He doesn’t really work much anymore. What do you want with him?” 

“We were told he could make us a custom dress,” Aerith explains before Zack can respond, nudging him gently to make room. “It’s a bit of a rush job, but we’re able to pay accordingly.”

The shopkeeper frowns, her dark brows furrowing in visible confusion. “I don’t know where you heard that. Dad’s kinda―” She hesitates, shaking her hand from side to side as she searches for her words. “―lost his motivation for the business. Not a lot of opportunities down here to be creative, you know.” 

“If it helps, Verre sent us?” Aerith offers hopefully. “She seemed to think he’d be interested.” 

For a moment, the shopkeeper stares, unblinking, until she seemingly catches herself and says, “ _Verre_ did? From the Honey Bee?” When both Zack and Aerith nod, she shoots a speculative look at the lot of them, narrowing her eyes. “Well, it’s worth a shot. And if Dad doesn’t feel like working, I’d be happy to take on the commission. Dad’s better at dresses, but I gotta make a name for myself, too.” With that, she turns and lifts the counter hatch before making her way toward the doorway in the back of the shop. “Hold tight for a sec.”

“Thanks!” Zack calls to her retreating back, rotating in place to lean against the counter. Aerith mirrors him, but where Zack’s arms are folded across his chest, hers are raised before her, swaying slightly in excitement as she darts her gaze around the shop. 

“I call dibs on that!” she exclaims, pointing at one of the few dresses displayed on the wall instead of a rack. Zack’s experience with dresses, let alone fashion, is limited at best, but he agrees that it would become her. The red shade alone would complement her green eyes, as well as bring out the auburn in her hair. Tifa, too, judging by her intent stare, seems to agree.

“You’re welcome to it,” Cloud grumbles, shifting his feet as he shoots suspicious glances at the various displays of wares. 

“You’d look good in that, Aerith,” Zack says with a grin, helpless against the combined force of her enthusiasm and Cloud’s grumpiness. “You don’t want a custom dress though?” 

“Eh, with the time we have, they probably wouldn’t be able to work from scratch anyway,” Aerith replies with a shrug before tilting her head, side-eyeing Cloud. “And out of the three of us, Cloud’s dress will need the most adjusting.” 

“ _No, it won’t_ ,” Cloud snaps, only to wince not a second later. Zack chuckles to himself at the hole Cloud dug for himself: to claim that a dress would fit well implies that his figure is feminine enough to cater to the curved shape, but the prospect of a custom dress would require the undivided attention of at least one, if not two, tailors. “I can just grab one of those,” Cloud argues, weakly gesturing in seemingly no particular direction. 

Tifa, hovering beside the nearest rack of clothes, leans over and quickly rifles through a few dresses, humming in sympathy. “I don’t know, Cloud. These don’t look like they’d fit your shoulders.” 

_His waist, however…_

Following this thought, Zack wisely decides not to repeat it out loud in deference to Cloud’s look of warning. Normally, he would feign innocence, but, considering that he has lost literal minutes today to rhapsodizing over Cloud’s, well, _everything_ , the precaution is admittedly warranted. Regardless, the fact that Cloud knows him well enough to anticipate this must, gauging by how quickly the blond darts his face away, leave Zack looking openly besotted.

“Not sure about mine either,” Tifa continues merrily, oblivious to the pantomime occurring behind her. “I might go sleeveless. What do you think, Cloud?” 

Before Cloud can even open his mouth, their conversation is derailed when a man enters the shop front through the back door, closely followed by the female shopkeeper. The man―Li Wei, evidently―appears past the typical retirement age, and Zack realizes that he recognizes him as the cashier who once passed judgement on his “uninspired” purchases. 

“What’s this about a commission,” Li Wei mutters, approaching the group while rubbing a hand across his face. If Zack did not know any better, he would suspect that this man has just been woken from a nap. “If you need something adjusted, just ask Nuan. She’s more than capable.” 

“Verre referred us to you specifically.” Smiling, Aerith pushes back from the counter and meets the tailor midway, twining her hands together in entreaty. “She said you might appreciate the challenge.” 

At that, Li Wei slowly shoots a few conspicuous looks between Aerith and Tifa, his frown deepening. “I don’t see the challenge here.”

“Oh, it’s not for us,” Tifa says before she grabs hold of Cloud’s shoulders and, ignoring his quiet protests, walks them both forward to stand by Aerith. “It’s for him.” 

If the tailor held even an iota of interest in the job, it seems to leave him in a single exhale, his shoulders drooping miserably. “Verre knows I don’t do men’s clothes,” he mutters before raising his voice to repeat, “Ask Nuan.”

“No, no, you wouldn’t be making men’s clothes!” Aerith trills, wrapping her hands around Cloud’s arm and rocking him gently. Zack cannot see Cloud’s expression from his position by the counter, but he can only imagine that he must be channeling all of his strength to keep the mortification at bay. “You see, my friend here told me that, just once, he’d like to dress up like a girl, so we wanted to get him a cute dress!”

In an uncanny impression of his daughter only minutes ago, Li Wei stares, his gaze meandering between the trio before it finally lands on Cloud, whose shoulders stiffens under the scrutiny―which consequently awakens Zack’s instincts. In his heart, he understands that Verre would not send them to this tailor if he could not be trusted, but his hackles rise regardless, wary of the man’s judgment. He is sorely tempted to step forward, to remind the room that he is present, but, trusting Verre, he decides to hang back, waiting. 

“Is this true?” Li Wei asks, his voice clearer―and far more amiable―than it has been, at which Zack relaxes with a relieved exhale, wondering why he ever doubted his boss in the first place.

“Uh. Yeah?” 

If Li Wei registers the lack of conviction in Cloud’s response, then it does not seem to diminish his burgeoning interest: nattering to himself, he squints and looks Cloud up and down. Nuan, hovering by the workshop entrance, must interpret this as a positive sign, for she smiles and straightens as though in readiness. Her smile only grows when Li Wei reaches out and encourages Cloud to slowly rotate, the latter only fulfilling the request thanks to Aerith propelling him onward. As soon as Cloud has turned to fully face Zack, he locks eyes with him and mouths a perfectly enunciated “help.” Zack only just manages to stifle his resulting chuckle in a swiftly raised fist. 

“Yes, yes, we can work with this,” Li Wei declares after Cloud has made a complete circle, the tailor’s excitement nigh on tangible. “Nuan said you need this by tonight?” 

“Yes, by five thirty,” Aerith confirms with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry about the late notice!” 

To everyone’s surprise, Li Wei quite literally waves off Aerith’s words. “Just adds to the challenge,” he remarks before excusing himself as he totters past the trio with notable speed toward the open counter hatch. Zack shifts back to watch as Li Wei rummages underneath the register, the tailor resurfacing with a large drawing pad and a bushel of colored pencils not a moment later. 

“We’ll have to work from an existing dress,” Li Wei explains as the rest of the group gathers around the counter, “but we can still get creative.” With that, he places his pencil against an open page and begins to write a column of notes in the top right-hand corner.

Losing interest, Zack looks away to focus on Cloud, whose left shoulder presses into Zack’s sternum with how closely he is forced to stand. There is little room for four people around the counter, let alone five, so Zack decides to leave them all to it. With a parting shoulder pat, he carefully dislodges himself from between the wall and Cloud, who only glances at him briefly before redirecting his cautious expression at Li Wei’s purple pencil. 

Since returning to Midgar, Zack has had need to visit this boutique only a handful of times, during which he only searched through the practically non-existent men’s section. Thus, curious to see what it has to offer, he wanders over to the rack by the door and begins to methodically rifle through the hangers, cataloging each dress. Most, as far as he can tell, are designed with practicality in mind―undoubtedly in deference to the boutique’s humbler clientele―but a few are obviously intended for special occasions rather than everyday wear. 

One in particular, hanging near the end, catches Zack’s attention, its silk-like blue fabric so close in tint to Cloud’s pre-Mako eyes that his heart stutters with a pang of nostalgia. High-collared and long, the dress would effectively hide Cloud’s less feminine aspects while also emphasizing his assets. _His back, for one_ , Zack notes with glee as he scoots the hanger to inspect it in full.

The collar―though extending from a covered chest―clasps closed at the nape in a single strip of fabric, leaving the wearer’s upper back exposed, not unlike a halter top. The shoulders, too, are left out in the open, gaping above a pair of full-length sleeves. If not for their narrowness, the dress would be perfect for Cloud, from its tailored waist to its sentimental hue. 

Hesitating, Zack sneaks a peek at his friends: Cloud, face mostly composed, appears to be suffering in silence as Aerith and Tifa exchange ideas with Li Wei and Nuan over the drawing pad. He does not pay Zack any mind, not even when the latter cannot stop staring, mentally draping the blond in blue cloth. It is not something Zack has ever before considered, let alone _imagined_ , but, well, it’s _Cloud_. Zack would love him in whatever fabric, in whatever skin, he presented himself. 

As such, Zack blames this thought for how he proceeds to charge up to his friends, dress in hand, and startles them all with a ringing declaration of “ _this one!_ ” 

Clearing his throat, Zack dims the brightness of his grin and repeats himself far more sedately, waiting for his shocked friends to see what he sees―waiting for Cloud especially. To think that he could have looked upon Aerith and Tifa and not known his own loveliness. Cloud has _nothing_ to be insecure about, and if Zack can aid him in perceiving this, even in this roundabout way, then will it not be worth the embarrassment?

“Oh, wow,” Tifa murmurs after she recovers, her eyes roaming over the dress in blatant appreciation. “That’s really nice.”

Aerith, reaching out to test the fabric, makes a happy sound of agreement, and Zack beams, pleased at their support. Cloud, unsurprisingly, remains stoically silent, but he does not immediately disparage the suggestion, so Zack steps forward to lay it across the counter for Li Wei’s perusal, only to catch a glimpse of the drawing pad. Zack knows not to judge an unfinished sketch, let alone a first draft, but he barely stops himself from ripping out the page and swapping it with the blue dress. Instead, he diplomatically veils the purple monstrosity with his superior find, urging everyone to scour the former option from their minds. 

“The sleeves need to be bigger, but the color is perfect,” Zack remarks, lifting the upper half of the dress by the hanger’s hook and transferring it into Li Wei’s waiting hand. “And I’m almost positive his waist will fit. It’s pretty small, about―” He holds his hands aloft before him, circling an imaginary torso with nary a thought. “―this big. Think it’ll work?” 

In his peripheries, Zack notices Aerith and Tifa crane their necks to stare at Cloud, who thereupon buries his face in his palms and swears under his breath, but Zack elects to ignore this, waiting for Li Wei’s assessment. The tailor mutters to himself as he scrutinizes the garment, turning it this way and that, before he finally raises his head and locks eyes with Zack’s. 

“This fabric is a challenge, but as long as he fits, we can make it work!” Li Wei confirms, his voice overflowing with excitement. Grinning, Zack opens his mouth to thank him, only to be derailed as the tailor, seemingly motivated by a burst of creative energy, darts out from behind the counter and grabs Cloud’s arm. “Measurements!” he exclaims and begins to drag a harried Cloud toward the workshop, followed closely by his daughter. “Nuan, get the tape! I need you to write these down as I work―there’s no time to lose!”

Biting his lip to abstain from laughing, Zack trails after them. He stops at the doorway to lean against the jamb and watches as the tailors corral Cloud to a set of mirrors in the center of what can only be described as an explosion of fabrics, sewing machines, and mannequins. Brandishing a measuring tape, Li Wei sets to work immediately, calling out numbers as he holds it up to Cloud’s limbs, seemingly at ease with the intensity of his client’s scowl. 

“Zack, could you help me with this?” a voice asks from behind Zack. Reluctantly, he peels away from the doorframe and backtracks to reunite with Aerith, who points up at the red dress she had previously claimed. “Be a dear?” 

“Oh. Sure!” Not even needing to stand on his tiptoes, Zack reaches up, grasps the hanger, and carefully lowers the dress into Aerith’s extended arms. Previously, he had only spared it a glance, but a discerning look reveals its more elegant qualities, from the tastefully ruffled skirt to its strapless bodice. “You set on this one? Not gonna check out anything else?”

“Mm, as long as it sits okay,” Aerith replies gamely, holding the dress to her frame and watching it swish from side to side as she rotates her torso. A coy look suddenly passes over her face, which only grows as she side-eyes Zack with flagrant mischief. “Tifa,” she calls, redirecting her gaze to the last of their party, “what do you think I should do with my hair? Put it all up?” 

“ _All_ up?” Tifa, pausing from searching through the dresses by the door, tilts her head back and gives Aerith an appraising glance before abandoning her efforts to head over. Upon arriving, she reaches out as though to cradle Aerith’s face, only to merely flick the lock of hair hanging by her cheek. “No, just put it up in a high ponytail. It looks good loose.”

As Zack narrows his eyes at Tifa, chewing over her choice of words, Cloud reappears at his elbow, seemingly either having been released by the tailors or having escaped them on his own. The latter, based on his sour expression, appears to be the likelier option. Zack, although tempted to curl an arm across his shoulders and gather him in close, keeps his distance, wary of being bitten out of spite. 

“Will it fit?” he asks instead, willing Cloud to understand that his selection was not born of mockery, but of sincerity. Something in his tone must pierce through his mood, for Cloud unclenches his jaw and responds to the question with a curt nod. 

“Oh, wonderful!” Aerith clasps her hands in delight, only to scramble to catch the red dress as it begins to slip from her chest. “Whoops! Sorry―just excited!” she explains with a chuckle, adjusting her hold on the hanger. “Okay, we need to start thinking about what else we need. Ah, makeup? And we need to do something about Cloud’s hair…”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Well, it _is_ short,” Tifa admits, shooting an apologetic glance at Cloud’s self-conscious glare, “and we need you to look as convincing as possible.” 

Zack, who has spent what must be lifetimes burrowing his face into Cloud’s nape, reveling in the sensation of short, soft hairs tickling his forehead, reimagines the lengths of those same hairs and promptly frowns. Long hair, Zack concludes, would not suit him. What’s more, why bother donning a dress with an open back if the skin would then be shrouded? 

“Leave his hair alone,” he orders, only just managing to keep himself from blurting out the words in a panic, his mind still lingering on the memorable expanse of Cloud’s pale back. Judging by his friends’ expressions―especially Aerith’s, whose knowing manner she makes no effort to hide―he did not succeed in checking his tone. Flushing, Zack clears his throat and says, “But I, uh, can borrow some makeup from the Bee if you need it. I should probably check in with Verre anyway. Let her know everything’s a go.” 

“Sure, Zack,” Aerith all but purrs, her green eyes glinting happily. “We’d appreciate that!” 

Never will Zack take Cloud’s requital of his love for granted, especially in moments like these, when Zack can openly roll his eyes at Aerith, acknowledging her weighted tone with pointed exasperation. There is no more pining, after all, that must be veiled from curious looks. Cloud, too, must feel the same, for he huffs out a laugh, wraps a firm hand around Zack’s wrist, and begins to pull him toward the exit.

“I’ll go, too,” Cloud announces, and then, as they cross the threshold, murmurs, “I don’t wanna risk being alone with them right now,” and shuts out Aerith’s cooing with a decided click of the door. He then releases Zack’s wrist―much to the latter’s disappointment―and wanders toward a low wall. Without glancing back, he hops up and settles atop it, his dangling feet barely grazing the ground.

As Zack approaches, Cloud momentarily closes his eyes and inhales, the breath long and deep―worryingly so. Cautiously, Zack forces himself to stop a few feet away, tucking his hands into his pockets in self-castigation. “You okay?” he asks, watching intently as Cloud rubs at the side of his nose. “Not…losing time, are you?”

“No, not that,” Cloud replies readily, opening his eyes. Just as quickly, he frowns, seemingly at not finding Zack nearby. True to his hypothesis, as soon as Zack edges forward, allowing only a step of distance between them, Cloud’s mouth relaxes into a neutral line. 

“I just need a second,” Cloud whispers. “It was…overwhelming. Having strangers touch me.” 

For a moment, in between blinks, Zack’s sight is engulfed in the green of Mako. Strangers’ hands gloved in latex reach out to him, laden with needle-tipped syringes, all while his body ignores his commands to move, to _run_. But, in the next moment, Zack is standing before Cloud, each present and whole and accounted for, in the middle of the Wall Market, and the memory sinks as swiftly as it surfaced. 

Still, he is left restless with the desire for physical comfort, both to give and partake of. And so, shifting in place, he swallows and asks, “Would it be alright if I touched you?” 

Zack does not know what he expects―a shake of the head, a scoff, a shrug―but it is not the smile that Cloud imparts, hopeful and small, nor the silent nod. Permission granted, Zack falls forward with the passion of a drowning man gasping for air. Cloud’s arms lift so easily to welcome him home, his hands locking him into the embrace even as Zack’s own clutch the blond’s shoulders. With the wall’s aid, they are nearly of a height, so it takes nothing for Zack to tilt his forehead against Cloud’s, close his eyes, and inhale. 

Whether out of design or instinct, their breaths soon fall into harmony, settling them until all apprehension begins to drowse, never fully gone but willing to be tamed. Cloud’s disquiet especially, if his behavior in the boutique was any indication, can only be subdued for a little while―not that he can be blamed for it, what with Aerith and Tifa’s enthusiasm, as well as Zack’s own investment in the proceedings. The attention must be suffocating.

“Those two mean well, you know” Zack whispers, opening his eyes. “Aerith and Tifa.” 

“Yeah, I know.” With a quiet huff, Cloud gently pushes away from Zack’s forehead, sitting back upright. In turn, Zack slides his hands downward, slots them into the bends of Cloud’s arms, and smiles when Cloud cups his elbows, their forearms in parallel. Cloud’s are shorter, Zack observes, but only just, and beginning to thicken with regular exercise, no longer belying his Mako-given strength. 

“They sure were friendly with each other though,” Cloud mutters, side-eyeing the boutique. “Are they dating yet or what?” 

“Ha! A good question.” Zack shrugs, fully aware that Aerith purposely messed with him in that regard―and would have whether or not she and Tifa had confessed to each other. “Not sure. They might be. They did show up together this morning. _Early_.” 

Humming, Cloud ducks his head and curves his fingers across the inside of Zack’s forearm, playing with the skin with absolutely no consideration to the latter’s sensitive nerve endings. “If they’re not, it won’t take them long to sort it out,” Cloud drawls, punctuating each word with a careless swipe of his thumb. “Not as long as it took us.” 

“Hey, in my defense,” Zack manages after a moment, blinking out of his stupor, “I thought you were in love with Tifa. I didn’t wanna get in the way.” 

Cloud pauses in his ministrations, face carefully blank. Finally, he raises his head and, with the solemnity of a eulogist, declares, “Zack, I’m _gay_.” 

“Yes, sunshine,” Zack replies patiently, “I know that _now_.” 

Following the night they shared, he knows. Extensively and intimately. With Cloud finally in reach, Zack paid particular attention to each and every aspect of him he could not have otherwise encountered from a polite distance. And Cloud, in turn, returned his caresses twofold, reeling from nearly having lost him again. Zack is no poet, but Cloud’s hands could wring verses from Zack’s heart―he would only have need to press, and the words would gush forth as though from a vein.

Appeased, Cloud refocuses on Zack’s inner arm, tracing his thumb across it in seemingly deliberate strokes, as though writing. The motions are too small to be differentiated, but Zack pretends that he recognizes the first two: a downward curve followed by an angular hook stemming from the first―the first character of Cloud’s name. Perhaps Cloud would not be so forward as to claim him thus, but, regardless of the word he secretly presses into Zack’s skin, it is no question that it is one of love―and has always been. 

Zack does not understand how he failed to perceive this. For one so reluctant to show affection for anyone, let alone go out of his way to make friends, Cloud is remarkably demonstrative, in his own way, toward Zack. During the weeks since returning to Midgar, his manner toward Zack warmed throughout, but it had never been cold in the first place. What Zack assumed was hero worship might have been a crush, if not something more. 

“It feels dumb in retrospect,” Zack mutters, half to himself. “How long I waited to tell you how I feel.”

Cloud makes a little sound of acknowledgement, eyes still cast down as he continues writing on Zack’s arm. He finishes with a swipe of his thumb, as though erasing whatever message he composed, and looks up. “Why did you?” he asks. “Wait?” 

“A mix of reasons.” Unwittingly, Zack glances at the boutique, paranoid that the truth will summon the reason in question. “At first, because of Aerith. You don’t know how terrible I felt, coming back and feeling like I’d cheated on her.” He shakes his head, sighing, only to pause in confusion when he registers Cloud’s wide-eyed silence. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Cloud quickly replies, but fails to school his expression in time, making himself the subject to Zack’s unimpressed scrutiny. Itching with curiosity, Zack gently shakes his arms, prepared to tease the answer out of him, when Cloud relents, shrugging weakly. “I just…didn’t realize you already liked me back then.” 

_Like_. The word, Zack knows, is a watered-down version of how he truly felt, even on that wasteland of a battlefield, staring at the rifle pointed at Cloud’s head. It feels wrong to let it pass unchecked.

“Already loved,” Zack corrects and then curves a hand along Cloud’s cheek, watching the wonder sparking in his eyes. Cloud’s reaction only proves it: for all of Zack’s eloquent caresses, his love cannot be left unspoken―his love needs to hear it. “I always cared about you, Cloud. I just figured out how much the moment they were gonna shoot you.” 

The last Zack did not intend to say, the words blundering their way past his lips without his consent and consequently transmuting Cloud’s joy into concern. Zack silently curses himself into oblivion for ruining the moment, but Cloud’s expression soon lightens into one approaching, of all things, _playfulness_. 

“Well,” Cloud drawls, covering Zack’s hand on his cheek with his own, “no wonder you had such a dumb look on your face.” 

Zack bursts into laughter, Cloud quirking a smile despite the proximity of the sudden noise. “Yeah, I bet I did,” Zack says in between quieter chuckles and then momentarily tips his forehead against Cloud’s, grateful for the distraction. In lieu of a response, Cloud merely squeezes his hand, watching him with what can only be described as fondness. 

“What about you? When did you start liking me?” Zack asks on a whim, brimming with bravery begot by Cloud’s regard and their shared mirth. “Was it the omelette?”

“Sure, Zack,” Cloud agrees easily. Closing his eyes, he turns his head and presses a kiss into Zack’s palm. “The omelette.” 

\--- 

“Well.” Thomas, staring, blows out a long breath, hands propped up on his hips. “Corneo’s gonna be happy.”

For lack of anything substantial to add, Zack curtly nods, observing the newest, albeit unofficial, Honey Bee employees with a vague sense of unease, his gaze constantly drawn to the middle figure as though propelled by gravity. Cloud, as Zack had insisted would be the case from the beginning, is resplendent in blue, the rich color only standing out more due to the accents of black Li Wei added to the bodice. The dress, however, is nothing to Cloud himself, whose androgynous beauty slots so easily into the guise that it leaves Zack staggered. Without looking to confirm, he cannot say whether Tifa’s dress is purple or blue, nor can he remember which accessories Aerith decided upon―all he can see is Cloud, who is _too_ lovely. 

Zack, in this precise moment, feels himself a fool, questioning just when he set aside his apprehension in lieu of transforming Cloud into, for lack of a better word, _bait_. He knows, of course, that he is easily distracted, especially when Cloud’s emotional state is in flux, but even he would have thought this level of self-sabotage beyond him. Still, it is far too late to back out now, so Zack, helplessly staring at Cloud’s pink moue, can only pray that Corneo is not partial to blonds.

“We’ll take that as a compliment!” Aerith chirps, breaking Zack out of his Cloud-induced trance. If she notices his distraction, then she does not remark upon it, verbally or otherwise. In fact, when Cloud stepped out of the fitting room―bedecked in blue and a layer of thankfully tasteful makeup―she somehow restrained herself from chucking teasing comments in his direction, settling for a single knowing look. His face must have said it all. 

“Please do,” Thomas replies and shakes his head, brows nearly reaching his hairline. “Alright, let’s get going.” He waves an arm at the Honey Bee’s courtyard, as of yet miraculously empty. “Last thing we need is to waste time fending off horndogs. This way.” 

With that, Thomas begins to lead them toward the market, Zack haltingly falling into step several moments later, reluctance gnawing on the corners of his resolve. The last to join their expedition, he ends up facing Cloud’s upper back, the skin bare and wondrously familiar. Weak, Zack sinks into his memories as though into a tepid bath, the heat not reaching anything but his surface thoughts, only to be woken by a cold splash of reality. Unashamed but chastened, he quickens his pace to match Cloud’s and reaches for his hand, entwining their fingers. Cloud, to his credit, does not even spare him a glance, merely squeezes his hand and marches them onward. 

At the front, Thomas acts as a driving wedge in their formation, parting aside an incoming wave of clients heading toward the Honey Bee. Each and every one gawks as they pass by, but the oglers remain silent, seemingly cowed by the combined menace exuding from three―if not all five―members of the party. Zack levels a glare over his shoulder, daring the men to trail after, but they readily scurry away, aiming for more willing prospects. 

As soon as they are out of earshot, Thomas turns his head sideward, says, “Verre had a message for you,” and beckons them closer before continuing in a lower tone. “As far as Corneo knows, you are all full-fledged employees of the Honey Bee, so you have the protected right to refuse any of his…requests. He knows not to disrespect any of our girls. But if you want _my_ input―” Angling his torso, Thomas shoots them a wary look. “―don’t let it get that far. Get what you need and _get out_. We’ll deal with the fallout. Consider it a bonus.”

“What about self-defense?” Tifa asks. _Her dress_ is _purple_ , Zack notes with a touch of hysteria, reeling from the dark undertone of Thomas’s advice. “Are we allowed to fight him?” 

“We’d appreciate it if you at least avoided killing him,” Thomas replies with a laugh, shaking his head as he rights himself. “For all our sakes. You could end up with a bounty on your heads if you’re not careful. Same about his goons.”

Humming, Aerith tilts her head toward Tifa and whispers, “You’d look pretty hot as an assassin.” 

Zack breaks off into quiet giggles as Tifa sputters and picks up her pace. Aerith follows her, but not before sharing a smug look with Zack, who shakes his head in amused exasperation, secretly thankful for the distraction. His concern, however, abates only momentarily, and he spends the rest of the journey hyperaware of Cloud’s hand in his, wondering if he will be capable of releasing it when the time comes. 

Zack does not have to wonder long, for Corneo’s mansion soon makes itself known in the distance, peeking through the scraps of metal detritus strewn throughout the Wall Market. Oddly, Thomas calls for a halt, stopping them just out of sight of the lone man guarding the doors, the reason for which becomes clear as soon as Thomas turns to face Zack with an apologetic expression. 

“Zack, you’re gonna have to wait here,” he says, voice uncharacteristically soft. “I don’t want to risk having you associated with this since you’re an actual employee.”

Reflexively, Zack jerks his head to look at Cloud, only to find the blond already staring back at him. Whatever Zack’s face is doing must be disastrous, for Cloud does not even blink before announcing, “Give us a few minutes,” and dragging him behind the corner of what appears to be a weapons shop. The cover provides only a semblance of privacy, but it is enough to hide how quickly Zack wraps his arms around Cloud’s waist, crowding in close as the latter’s hands find his shoulders.

“Zack―”

“I know,” Zack interrupts. He does not need to have this conversation again, but he is only human, stretched every which way by fears and doubts―a moment of regret is the least he is entitled to. Sighing, he leans back and manages a wry smile, the expression becoming genuine in response to Cloud’s intent look. “Just…be careful, alright?” 

“I will,” Cloud promises, his words heavy with gravitas. “We’ll be fine. Worst case, knife’s in my boot.” 

“Yeah. Thanks, sunshine.” The reassurance does not eradicate his anxiety, but his racing heart does begin to slow, always attentive to Cloud. Still, in fraught moments like these, words are oft insufficient, so Zack ducks down, places his lips against Cloud’s temple, and rests there for a total of five steady counts, grasping at composure. On the last beat, he leans away, but―if Cloud’s narrowing eyes are any indication―the touch was not enough to satisfy either of them. 

With a scoff, Cloud entwines his fingers across Zack’s nape, pulls him down, and greets him with his mouth. The resulting kiss is firm, less about passion and more about conviction: _I will see you again_ , it says. Zack melts into it with the fervor of a devotee, offering himself in sacrifice to his deity’s whims. As all kisses do, it ends too soon, but it leaves him rejuvenated, his immolated blood replaced with a godly nectar. It will hold him until next they meet. 

Smiling, Zack opens his eyes and lets them rove across Cloud’s face, noting the pleased curve of his painted lips, marveling at the splay of his mascara-tipped lashes from up close. Perhaps sensing his regard, Cloud looks up, only for his smile to freeze before evening out into suspiciously calculated blankness. 

“You got lipstick on me, didn’t you?” Zack asks lightly, to which Cloud nods, his stoic expression crumbling away as his eyes scrunch. Resigned, Zack sucks in his lips in an ill-advised attempt to wipe the pink away, balks at the waxy taste, and rubs at his mouth instead. “Well, at least now we match.” 

Cloud snorts out a laugh. “Not until you try this thing on, we don’t,” he retorts, jerking his chin toward his dress. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.” 

“Yeah, I― Sorry.” Cloud would have looked wonderful regardless of what dress he wore, but it is no question that Zack had flung fuel into an already fervid fire. “I did get carried away, didn’t I?” 

“It has an open back,” Cloud deadpans. “My sweater is literally tied to my hips because I have nowhere else to put it.” 

“Er.” Zack ducks his head, pretending as though he is not in the least bit hiding from Cloud, and slides his hands from the blond’s waist to his hips. They give way under his questing fingers. “It, uh, makes them look more feminine?” he offers lamely, wincing as he meets Cloud’s unimpressed expression.

“What happened to protecting my virtue?” 

“To be fair, I was half asleep when I said that,” Zack retorts, failing to bite back his smile. “But you’re right: this wasn’t the best choice for subterfuge.” Twisting his mouth in thought, Zack runs his hand up Cloud’s back until it reaches the skin and absently strokes the line of his spine. For all his protests, Cloud presses into his wandering hand so easily, so readily. “Maybe we could get you a tank top or―”

“No, it’s fine,” Cloud interrupts quickly― _too_ quickly, Zack realizes with a cheeky grin. Daring him to comment, Cloud meets Zack’s gaze head-on, the unapologetic glint in his eyes leaving Zack breathless. Whatever blue the Mako did not manage to swallow from his irises blazes now, drawn out by the dress. They do not look like a SOLDIER’s eyes at all, merely Cloud’s.

“It does bring out your eyes though,” Zack whispers, smiling into the words as though imparting a secret. “They’re beautiful.” 

Cloud is yet unaccustomed to Zack’s unfettered praises, so it is no shock when he finally lowers his gaze, but the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips is a welcome surprise. “We have the same eyes, Zack.” 

“Mm, no. Yours are nicer.” 

Huffing, Cloud glares from underneath his brows and mutters, “You’re not allowed to keep saying shit like that when I’m wearing this fucking lipstick. We don’t have the tube anymore.”

Cloud’s frown only deepens as Zack chuckles, regretting having returned the borrowed makeup. Though, knowing their luck, they would fail to reapply the lipstick properly, further ruining Aerith’s valiant efforts. “We’ll just have to _make up_ for it later,” he quips, only to garner a half-hearted shove. “Didn’t like that one, huh?”

“Terrible.” 

“True artists are never appreciated.” Playing it up, Zack breathes out a dramatic sigh and finally releases Cloud, stepping away. As welcome as this respite has been, Verre’s warning not to be late has begun to niggle at his mood, time respooling once more. “Alright, we should go before the others drag us out. Come on.” Zack gestures toward the mansion, but before he can even fully turn, a hand catches his wrist. 

“Hold on,” Cloud says, tugging at Zack’s arm so that they once again face each other. “Promise me you won’t hang around here after we go in.”

“Sunshine―”

“Nope.” Cloud shakes his head minutely, barely moving his neck as he stares up at Zack, unswayed. “You heard what Thomas said: it’s not safe. We’ll meet you at Seventh Heaven, alright? Barret’ll need to hear what we find out anyway.” 

In one part of Zack’s heart, the concept of abandoning Cloud without backup reeks of betrayal, but in his head, his thoughts chide him, reminding him of the repercussions of doubt. How many times, after all, must Cloud ask Zack to trust him before the lesson solidifies? _No more_ , he decides and then presses a derailing kiss to Cloud’s cheek before he can begin to pile on reassurances. 

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the bar,” Zack agrees as he pulls away. Then, at Cloud’s disbelieving look, he amends, “I’ll wait a little while, just to make sure there isn’t any trouble.” 

“That’s what I thought you meant,” Cloud mutters and proceeds to lead them back around the corner of the shop, slipping his hand down into Zack’s. The rest of their party, waiting a polite distance away, glance over their shoulders as the two enter earshot, seemingly having turned their backs to provide extra privacy. Zack wholly expects to return to a slew of teasing, but Aerith merely smiles at him, eyes warm. 

“Ready?” she asks, and Zack cannot tell if the question is directed at Cloud or him―perhaps both.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Cloud lilts, pitching his voice just high enough to sound convincing without edging into parody. “After you.” He beckons at Thomas, who huffs out a laugh and then steps out from their hiding place.

 _Be safe_ , Zack thinks but does not say, painfully aware of the ticking clock and loath to tarry them further. His face, however, must speak plainly enough, for Cloud shoots him a reassuring look and a nod before releasing his hand and trailing after Aerith and Tifa, making a visible effort to loosen his stride to reflect his disguise. Struggling not to follow him, Zack diverts to the safety of the scrap metal instead, settling in to watch the group approach the mansion. 

The guard, whether out of a lack of discipline or care, does not even stand upright to question the newcomers. Leaning against a column, he simply tosses his head in greeting at Thomas, evidently familiar with him, only to liven up when the rest come into sight. Spying through the gaps in the metal, Zack grits his teeth at the guard’s obvious admiration, feeling queasy at how he blatantly ogles Tifa’s chest. Whatever Thomas says, however, causes the guard to jerk his head up, gesture the candidates up the steps to the threshold, and knock on the mansion’s doors. A moment later, they open from within and admit Cloud, Aerith, and Tifa before closing with a decisive thud, leaving the guard and Thomas outside. 

Zack manages not to panic through strength of will alone, yet he is incapable of drawing his eyes away from the―undoubtedly locked―doors, not even to spare Thomas a glance as the man steadily makes his way back. Regardless of how long Zack stares, they remain shut, betraying nothing. With a pang, he realizes that, from the sidelines, he would have no way of even knowing if anything were to go wrong. Perhaps _this_ was why Cloud insisted he not loiter: so that he would not lose his head to worry. 

“I assume you’re not working your shift?”

Zack startles, looking over at Thomas hovering not two feet away. “Ah, _shit_ , I forgot. Hold on, I can―” He cuts himself off as the man raises a placating hand, his mouth quirked in amusement.

“I’m just messing with you, Zack. I had it handled since morning.” Thomas sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Think of it as an apology.”

“Apology?” Puzzled, Zack combs through his recent memories, only to come up short. If Thomas ever slighted him, then the record of it has long since faded into oblivion. “For what?”

“Just something I said once,” Thomas admits, the words coming out slowly, cautiously, “about you and Cloud being too young to know what you want.”

Zack squints, only vaguely recalling the conversation. It must not have been especially notable or insulting to stand out in his memory. Besides, Thomas is not wrong: Zack _is_ young, relatively speaking, but he has lost far too much to waste time dithering over what he wants, now and beyond. Even as he marvels at the rosiness of a new relationship, he anticipates what lies ahead, when the novelty wears off and the love settles, steadfast through thick and thin. He knows what he wants. And, if the look in his eyes speaks true, then Cloud does, too. 

“It’s okay,” Zack finally replies, easily granting forgiveness. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“Still, I don’t wanna be that one asshole,” Thomas remarks, crossing his arms and shifting in place. “So, I take back what I said. Hell, I think you two will actually last.”

“You can tell?”

“Yeah, because of that.” Smiling, Thomas lifts a hand and points, punctuating the gesture with a snap of his wrist. “That’s the face of someone who knows exactly what his boy’s worth.” Not even waiting for a reply, he pivots in place and walks away, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Now just don’t do anything stupid to fuck it up.” 

By the time Zack comes up with an adequate response, he is long gone. 

\--- 

True to his word, Zack did not linger overlong in his hiding place by Corneo’s mansion, waiting only until he was satisfied that the ruse had taken hold before backing away. In retrospect, he wishes that he had left immediately, for when he opens the door to Seventh Heaven, the taproom is in utter chaos. 

The moment Zack steps inside, a figure sideswipes him as it barrels past, revealing itself to be Biggs when the man blurts out a harried apology before exiting the bar. Reeling, Zack looks to Barret―who stands farther in, presiding over the largest table―for an explanation, only to gape as Jessie and Wedge emerge from the corridor, armed with rifles. They deposit the weapons on Barret’s table, which is laden with more of the same, before rushing back through the doorway. Barret, overseeing the growing stockpile, acknowledges the rifles with a nod and returns his attention to reloading his gun arm, expression grim. 

Amid the hectic activity, the taproom, littered with unfinished tankards, is otherwise empty―save for a pocket of anxiety in the tiny form of Marlene. Sitting by herself atop a bar stool, she quietly watches the proceedings with wide eyes, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress. Zack cannot help the step he takes toward her, instinctively honing in on someone in need of comfort, only to reluctantly divert to Barret, painfully aware of the urgency of the situation, whatever it may be. 

Zack approaches warily, keeping a wandering eye on the weapons laid out before Barret, but the man does not even deign to spare him a glance, wholly preoccupied with his gun. It is only when Zack slowly asks, “What’s going on?” that he lifts his gaze and his frown becomes an outright scowl. 

“Shinra’s gonna drop the Plate on top of Sector 7,” Barret bites out without preamble, voice uncharacteristically cold. “They’re gonna take out the main support pillar.” 

Zack blinks, having parsed the words but unable to fit them together into any semblance of sense. “The pillar,” he repeats blankly, subconsciously turning his head in said structure’s direction, staring at the wall. Zack has passed it many times en route to and from Seventh Heaven, registering it only as gated, guarded, and therefore unsafe to approach. It is, however, visible from a distance, massive in width and spanning up to the underside of the Plate. If it were to crumble… 

Zack has experienced Shinra’s evils firsthand, but even he cannot imagine a world in which the president would order the decimation of an entire sector, not when it is full of innocent civilians. What gains could be had when the people would only turn against him? And yet, even as Zack deliberates, the memory of Tifa’s frown niggles at him. She suspected that Avalanche was in trouble, and here is the evidence laid out before him: Shinra will eradicate them at the root―and will destroy part of itself in the process.

 _This isn’t an execution_ , he realizes. _It’s a message_.

“Are you _sure_ that’s what’s happening?” Zack finally manages, desperate to disprove the bitter truth. “They’re not…doing maintenance on it or something?”

“ _Yes, I’m fu―!_ ” Barret shouts, only to cut himself off with a pained look in Marlene’s direction. Tempering his volume, he continues, “I’m sure. It’s swarming with soldiers, and Jessie saw at least one Turk with ‘em. He had fucking _bombs_.” 

“Turks…” Although Zack’s mind knows better, his naive heart screams betrayal. Tseng was never on his side, he reminds it, nor on the side of Midgar’s people. For all his doubts, the agent knew that, one day, there would be a dreaded order that he could not circumvent with loopholes or misfiled paperwork. Spiteful, Zack curses his once friend under his breath and begins to compartmentalize the situation, silently thanking Angeal’s endless patience as he falls back on his military training. 

“Alright, even if this is a false alarm, we need to order all civilians to evacuate.” Nodding to himself, Zack steps up to the stockpile and starts inspecting the array of guns with mild displeasure. “Can Jessie hack into a broadcast or something? Spread the message?”

Barret shakes his head, shifting to stand closer. “No time. Biggs ran out to tell people directly, tell ‘em to spread the word. There’s no guarantee they’ll listen, but…”

“If they don’t, we’ll just have to stop Shinra first,” Zack declares, the plural pronoun slipping out of his mouth without hesitation. Cloud will undoubtedly chew him out for once again exposing himself to danger, especially after they promised to no longer help Avalanche, but he imagines that the blond would also prefer to return to a Sector 7 that is still _intact_. “Do you have a plan?” 

“A frontal assault,” Barret replies and then winces when Zack frowns up at him. “The only way up is those stairs, and we don’t have time to drop from above.” 

Zack taps his index finger against the table, picturing the open stairwell leading up to a shorter tower―intended for maintenance―that stands flush against the pillar’s side. Knowing Shinra, they would place bombs throughout the pillar while keeping the detonator at the top of the tower, protected by soldiers. A frontal assault would mean that Shinra would automatically have the high ground, a prime spot for picking off insurgents before they could even touch the first step. If Avalanche could, however, reach the stairwell, then the two factions would be at the same disadvantage, their sights blocked by the several landings in their way. Regardless, their team could still be overwhelmed by sheer numbers before even making it halfway up. 

“We need a sniper rifle,” Zack realizes, eyes widening. He jerks his head up, only to find that Jessie and Wedge have since joined them at the table, hurriedly sorting through a pile of magazines. “Who’s the best shot here?” 

“Biggs,” Jessie replies without glancing up. “Barret’s second,” she adds belatedly, evidently sensing the man’s affronted glare. 

“Barret, we’ll need you on point anyway,” Zack intercepts quickly before an argument can arise. Fortunately, Barret nods with the solemnity of a true leader, no doubt―if yesterday’s mission was any indication―used to being at the forefront. “Biggs’ll need to set up on a nearby roof and pick off as many soldiers as he can before we charge in. We have a better chance of making it under his cover. Do we have a sniper rifle?” 

“There’s one downstairs!” Wedge confirms, already stepping away from the table in anticipation. “Not sure if we have many bullets for it, but…”

“It’ll do. Last resort―” Zack gestures at the stockpile, smiling wryly. “―we can also set him up with an automatic. Might be better for the cover fire anyway.” 

“I’ll call him,” Jessie offers and pulls out her phone as Wedge rushes off down the corridor in search of the weapon. 

“Thanks.” With that, Zack turns his attention back to the pile on the table and quietly sighs. He is painfully familiar with the Shinra-issued rifles, but only in the capacity of a target rather than a marksman. The soldiers stationed at the pillar will not likely be the best―not given the likelihood of them being sacrificed to the mission, whether by bullet or the weight of the Plate coming down on them―but they will be better shots than him, and Zack will only have so much room to dodge in that stairwell. There is also the matter of the Turks: an encounter with them too often ends in expertly applied bloodshed. Zack, with a firearm, is at a disadvantage either way.

Half to himself, Zack mutters, “Do you have any swords left?” as he reaches for the closest rifle, only to startle as Barret pushes his hand away. 

“Hold up, Zack. I need a favor.” Frowning, Barret grabs Zack’s shoulder and walks them a few steps away from Jessie, who only glances briefly in their direction before continuing her rapid-fire phone call. Barret does not release him when they stop―if anything, his grip tightens as his expression grows graver. “Zack, I need you to take Marlene somewhere and keep her safe.” 

“You…want me to leave?” Conflicted, Zack darts a look at the girl in question: she has not moved since he first entered the bar, but her eyes are just as wide, just as afraid. She is, Zack realizes with a pang, so very young. She should not be exposed to what will soon become a war zone, but to essentially abandon Barret and the others to Shinra’s ire, let alone an entire sector of civilians? Zack’s questionable loyalty to Avalanche aside, whatever is left of his honor forbids risking the lives of so many innocents. 

“Barret, what are you saying?” Zack demands, pitching his voice low. “You’ve seen me in action. You know I’m one of the best fighters here. Send one of the others instead.” 

“That’s _why_ I’m asking you, asshole,” Barret bites out, punctuating the words with a jostle. “Fuck, you fell to your death yesterday and don’t even have a scratch on you!” Before Zack can even begin to disassemble that argument, Barret grabs both of his shoulders and stares him down, eyes entreating.

“Zack, _please_. She’s my whole world.” Then, whispering, Barret adds, “I bet you can relate.”

“That’s just unfair,” Zack protests weakly as his resolve begins to waver. Cloud, he knows, would want Zack to stay out of harm’s way, but surely not even he would sit idly by in the face of a massacre, nor would he want Marlene in the thick of it. Ultimately, she cannot stay here―but Zack cannot leave. At least…not _indefinitely_. 

“What if I took her to someone safe and then returned?” Zack offers, mentally flipping through the few viable candidates who are not currently infiltrating a criminal’s hideout. Verre does not seem the type to suffer a child running about her establishment, nor is the Honey Bee the most appropriate place for Marlene, but perhaps… “Elmyra! Aerith’s mom,” he clarifies when Barret blinks blankly. “She lives in Sector 5, away from everyone. Marlene would be safe there.” 

“Aerith’s mom?” Barret repeats and then releases Zack’s shoulders at his confirming nod. “Alright, fine. Honest, we could use your help.” With that, Barret heads toward Marlene, who raises her arms in a plea to be picked up as soon as he nears, Zack trailing awkwardly after. With a smile, Barret obliges her, gathering her in close to whisper, “Marlene, honey, I’m gonna need you to be very brave, okay? You remember Zack?”

“Hi, Marlene,” Zack greets dutifully when the girl warily glances his way, hiding his discomfort at intruding on their goodbye.

“Hi, Zack. You’re the one with the chocobo friend.” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” he manages, speaking through a delighted laugh. “That’s me.”

“Marlene, Zack’s going to take you to see Aerith’s mom, Elmyra,” Barret explains, his voice on the edge of cracking. “You might need to stay with her a while, but I’ll get you when I’m done with work, okay?” 

“Okay,” Marlene echoes and ducks into the embrace, wrapping her thin arms around Barret’s neck. Zack politely casts his gaze to the floor at the first hint of tears in Barret’s eyes, unable to fathom the strength it takes to comfort your daughter without knowing if you will live to see her again. Perhaps it is not unlike what it takes to walk away from your friend into the firing range of an entire army, solely to keep him safe. If so, then he and Barret have far more in common than he first realized.

“Zack,” Barret says, and Zack looks up and instinctively lifts his arms when the man steps forward. Marlene reaches out and grasps onto Zack’s neck with the ease of practice as Barret transfers her over, Zack supporting her lower half with a sense of uncertainty that comes from growing up an only child. Some of it must show on his face, for Barret fixes him with a stern look and adds, “Take care of her.” 

“I will.” With that, Zack rushes toward the exit and calls, “I’ll come back!” in his wake, reluctant to send Barret a parting glance and encounter the grief there. It would only stop him in his tracks, wasting time they do not have. He pushes his way out the door, letting it slam shut behind him as he jogs down the few steps, only to freeze in place as he reaches the bottom. 

Sector 7’s evacuation, if it is even in effect, is half-hearted at best. Despite Biggs’s efforts, the surrounding buildings are filled with windows revealing flickering light and movement, the streets between them suffused with evening quiet. The few people lingering outside appear to be simply strolling about rather than fearing for their lives. After all, why would Shinra, they must wonder, purposely sacrifice its own citizens? 

“Zack,” Marlene murmurs, the name slipping straight into his ear, “is Daddy going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Zack replies sincerely, unable to offer weak platitudes in the face of Shinra’s sway over Midgar, not even to a child. Still, rallying, he cranes his head to catch Marlene’s eye and adds, “But I know that Barret loves you very much, and he’ll do everything he can to come back to you.” 

Eyes sad, Marlene nods and shifts closer, and Zack can do nothing but tighten his hold and accelerate into a dead run. The rest of the neighborhood is much the same: passive, disbelieving, and, of all things, _curious_. The pillar, Zack sees as he sprints past, has lured in a small crowd that watches the soldiers patrolling the structure from beyond the gate. Infuriated, he nearly diverts to scare them off, but he reluctantly presses on, heading for Sector 6. 

The Wall Market is, as always, preoccupied with itself, clueless to any possible goings-on outside of its purview. The one beacon of hope it holds is a strange gathering of people looking lost, armed with blankets and hastily packed bags. Evacuees, he realizes with a sigh of relief. Spurred on, he picks up the pace, warning Marlene to hold on. Thankfully, the rest of the journey continues without incident, any monsters lurking in the ruins of the Sector 5 slums avoiding Zack despite the easy target he cradles, having learned not to trifle with him over the past weeks. And yet, although he makes it to Aerith’s home in record time, Zack cannot help but mourn every lost second. 

Shifting Marlene to his left arm, Zack rapidly knocks on the door, praying that the lit windows indicate that Elmyra is, in fact, home. He exhales as soon as he registers a subtle twitch of the curtains in his periphery and then schools his face into a calm mask, not wanting to offer Aerith’s mother yet another reason to fear SOLDIERs. After a moment, Elmyra opens the door with a healthy amount of caution, eyeing him warily.

“Hello, Zack. Aerith isn’t here,” she says slowly, letting her gaze drop to Marlene. “Who’s this?”

“Hi, Elmyra, I’m so sorry, but I don’t have time to explain. This is Marlene―” Without ceremony, Zack carefully lifts the girl from his torso and passes her over to Elmyra, who accepts her with an admirable lack of protest. “―the daughter of one of Aerith’s friends. Could you please look after her for a while? Something bad’s happening in Sector 7, I’m sorry, I gotta g―” 

“Wait!” Elmyra blurts out, forcing Zack to stop where he had already turned away, tensed to sprint. “Where’s Aerith?” 

“She’s―” _Currently impersonating a sex worker_ , Zack thinks with an internal wince. “―with Tifa and Cloud in Sector 6. She should be safe with them.” 

The last, at least, is true enough. He expects Elmyra to argue, but she merely tightens her lips and does not reply, watching him with an expression Zack cannot immediately decipher but recognizes in the depths of his soul. It…once belonged to Angeal, he realizes: a mixture of disappointment and resignation. Faced with its doppelganger, Zack stands prouder, intent on banishing it once and for all. 

“She’ll come back safe,” Zack vows. 

And somewhere, elsewhere, the scales tip even farther. 

\---

When Zack, outfitted for war, returns to Sector 7, he is met with a fanfare of distant gunfire and a crowd pushing to rush past him toward the exit. They appear either oblivious to or uncaring of his full SOLDIER regalia, too occupied with reaching the safety of the nearby sector to register the wolf in their midst. Relieved that they are finally taking the situation seriously, Zack jukes through them and calls out encouragements, ordering them to join the evacuees already gathered in the Wall Market. Quick to respond to a clear voice of authority, the crowd echoes the order up the lines, and its frantic energy dims, momentarily placated. 

Zack leaves them all behind, zeroing in on the pillar ahead. He can just make out a pair of figures running up the stairwell, their forms too distinct to be anyone but Barret and Jessie. They are nearly at the top of the maintenance tower, only a few flights and a squad of soldiers remaining in their way. 

“ _Zack!_ ”

Zack skids to a halt and jerks back, shocked to find Cloud and Tifa emerging from the direction of the train station, of all places―a fact that Zack’s mind cannot wrap itself around given that he last saw them at Corneo’s, but he shelves it away for later. Clothed in their regular attire, they sprint toward him with grim expressions, something about the pair of them striking Zack as inherently wrong. 

Aerith, Zack realizes with a gasp, is not among them.

“What are you doing here?” Zack demands as they finally reach him, catching Cloud in a crushing embrace despite his iron tone. “ _Where’s Aerith?_ ” 

“ _She’s fine_ ,” Tifa says on an exhale, to which Zack blows out his own breath of relief. “She went ahead to warn everyone.” 

“Corneo talked: Shinra’s gonna drop the Plate on Sector 7,” Cloud explains hurriedly. He steps out of Zack’s arms, but not far enough away that Zack could not reel him back in, and stares up at him with that uncanny resolve of his. A part of him balks at Cloud being here in the midst of a warzone, but it is drowned out by his heart crowing in triumph. _Together_ , it says, _you are unstoppable_.

“We know.” Zack gestures for Cloud and Tifa to follow and then accelerates into a jog as they hem him in on both sides. “They’re already at the pillar. Barret and the others are trying to stop them.” He shoots a concerned glance Tifa’s way. “Should we look for Aerith first?” 

Tifa frowns but shakes her head. “She’ll be fine. She knows not to stick around.” 

“Alright, let’s go.” Zack leads them onward, deciding not to press the issue despite the mass of questions plaguing his mind, the most pertinent of which being the matter of what happened at Corneo’s. Emotionally, at least, neither Cloud nor Tifa seems the worse for wear―or else is exceedingly proficient at hiding it. He winces, promising to check on all three of them after this is all over, one way or another. 

Zack slows as they reach the compound, wary of alerting any snipers Avalanche has missed, only to growl in frustration at the few lingering onlookers. Despite the tripling of evacuees, they have remained standing before the gate, staring up at the pillar above, seemingly entranced by the echoes of a gunfight. Zack is not one to typically use his size or muscles to his advantage, but he decides to channel the SOLDIER within him as he stalks up to them, rage unbridled.

“What the hell are you doing?” he barks, startling all four gawkers, who then stumble back, no doubt having discerned his Mako eyes. “Get your asses to Sector 6!” 

Given a command, they scurry away, Zack ignoring them as he strides toward the mangled gate―likely Barret’s work, judging by the bullet marks. He ducks behind a caution sign hanging on the fence, hoping that it will block unwelcome headshots, and scours the stairwell for any gun barrels pointed their way. Avalanche was, it seems, thorough: save for two spots of color on the second landing, which Zack suspects might be Biggs and Wedge, he cannot make out any waiting soldiers―at least, not from this angle.

“You know,” Cloud murmurs at his side, having joined Zack at the fence during his survey, “I forgot you were technically an officer.” 

Zack cranes his head back and winks, eliciting a chuckle from him. Tifa, waiting a short ways behind Cloud, groans in exasperation and says, “No flirting, _please_.”

“Who said we were?” Zack quips and then points beyond the gate. “Coast seems clear, but I’ll run through first to make sure. Run in a zigzag when you follow.” Steeling himself, Zack reaches back and unsheathes the Buster Sword, adjusting it in his grip as he holds it above himself as a makeshift shield. He kicks the broken gate open and sprints at breakneck speed toward the tower, listening for the telltale clink of bullets. 

Zack arrives at the stairwell both unscathed and untargeted, the only sounds of gunfire coming from the distant battle up top. He is, however, alerted to a tremor of someone shifting on the landing above him, and he quickly raises a hand, ordering Cloud to a halt.

“Biggs?” Zack calls, searching through the patterned holes in the metal stairs for a glimpse of a face. “Wedge, is that you?” 

“Yeah, Zack, it’s us!” yells Biggs, voice relieved and thankfully free of pain.

“Okay, we’ll be up in a sec! Don’t shoot us!” 

Satisfied, Zack signals the all clear and then waits with trepidation as Cloud, armorless, enters the exposed space, wielding no impenetrable sword that could shield him from an ill-timed round. To his credit, he follows Zack’s orders without hesitation, zigzagging at a rapid pace even as no bullets fly his way, and reaches the cover of the stairs in seconds. 

Tifa asked them not to flirt, but Zack cannot help it: as soon as Cloud comes into range, Zack grabs his shoulder, draws him in, and sneaks in a chaste kiss, having missed the opportunity when they first reunited. He pulls away just as quickly, smiling at Cloud’s dumbfounded awe, and releases him with a gentle nudge to his shoulder. 

“I’m just glad you’re okay, is all,” Zack whispers, abashed. “Go on ahead, alright? Biggs and Wedge are waiting.” 

“You,” Cloud mutters, frowning, “have the worst timing,” but proceeds to sprint up the two flights of stairs. Biting back his grin, Zack beckons to Tifa, who runs the course with the same conscientiousness as Cloud, albeit more slowly. If she noticed their moment of intimacy, then she chooses not to call attention to it, entering the stairwell without comment. 

“Cloud’s with Biggs and Wedge,” Zack explains as he jogs up the steps, picking up the pace after he rounds the corner. The aforementioned men sit propped up against the railing of the landing above, Biggs resting with closed eyes while Wedge winces as Cloud tends to his shoulder. With a gasp, Tifa rushes to overtake Zack and thus reaches the landing first, dropping to her knees beside Cloud.

“Hey,” Zack calls as he follows, only to hiss when he sees the gush of dark red at Wedge’s right shoulder, the wound staunched by a drenched rag. “How bad is it?”

“It could be worse,” Biggs admits, shifting to stand on shaky legs. His thigh, Zack realizes with a start, is wrapped with a makeshift bandage―grazed by a bullet, judging by the amount of blood. “It went clean through.” 

“Yeah,” Wedge agrees, cracking a pained smile, “I’m lucky Shinra grunts are such craptastic shots.”

“He needs a potion,” Cloud announces, sending Zack a grave look. 

Zack scowls, cursing himself for lacking the foresight to ask if Avalanche had any in stock. Calculating, he looks up at the stairs above them, picking out the silhouettes of fallen bodies. There is a chance that a potion waits among them, but it is slim―the soldiers were, after all, sent on a suicide mission―and time is only running out.

“They _both_ need one,” Tifa says. Rising from her knees, she steps over Wedge, pulls his left arm over her shoulders, and slowly lifts him to his feet. “I think I have some back at the bar.” 

“No, go directly to Sector 6, to the Honey Bee,” Zack orders. Verre will not be thrilled at the prospect, but he cannot imagine that she or Thomas would turn away two wounded men, especially not if they were battling Shinra. Besides, she is definitely the sort to have an emergency stash of potions―likely kept in the back of a liquor cabinet. “Tell them Zack sent you. Ask for Thomas or Verre if they don’t let you in.” 

“Understood,” Biggs says and limps up to Tifa, grasping Wedge’s hand where it rests on her shoulder. “Tifa, I can take him. You’re needed here.”

“But…your leg…”

“Trust me, it’s easier to walk down the stairs than up like this,” he admits with a wince. When Tifa shakes her head, visibly hesitating, he adds, “ _We’ll be okay_. Go help Barret and Jessie!” 

“Right, let’s go!” Zack shouts, feeling only a twinge of guilt at cutting off any protests Tifa might have made, and hops up the first few steps, itching to run. Thankfully, Tifa releases Wedge into Biggs’s custody after only a moment’s pause, her mouth moving to form words Zack cannot parse from this distance. 

“Good luck,” Cloud says with a nod and then hurries after Zack, prompting the latter to continue up the stairs. Tifa’s steps join theirs not a second later, and the three of them begin to quickly work their way up the stairwell, not looking back. 

Zack takes point, keeping a sharp eye on the steps above for any undue movement, but he is only met with the stillness of corpses, yet more lives sacrificed to Shinra’s machinations. The first few they encounter lie in pairs, easy to evade, but Zack is forced to slow when they approach the first squad, having to carefully step around the bodies. Unlike the first few, these are outfitted far more effectively, their rifles of a higher quality and their belts full of extra ammo. 

Catching Cloud’s eye, Zack pointedly bobs his head at the soldiers. “Cloud.”

“Yeah.” Without hesitation, Cloud leans over and tugs the late captain’s rifle from his yielding grasp. As Cloud checks its cartridge count, Zack picks up a spare magazine, dreading a repeat of the last time they ran out of bullets in the middle of a gunfight. He pockets it, only to pause mid motion as a strange sound enters the edges of his consciousness. Attempting to place it, he closes his eyes and listens. A…whirring? 

“Is that,” Tifa asks, her voice seeping with disbelief, “a helicopter?” 

For a moment, the three of them simply stare at one another, incredulous or confused, before collectively scrambling up the steps, doubling their speed. The whirring only grows louder as they near the top of the tower, the sound punctuated by the occasional gunshot, until it cannot be denied that it belongs to anything but a helicopter, one likely piloted by Turks. Zack swallows down a second wave of betrayal at the realization, surprised at his own surprise. Who else, after all, has been doing Shinra’s dirty work all these years?

Zack leads with caution as they stalk up the last flight, but they only encounter more bodies, dead by Avalanche’s hand. Loath to be struck by friendly fire, he calls out a warning before popping out from the floor of the tower’s platform, raising his sword as a precautionary measure. When no bullets ping off its broadside, Zack signals their party forward and jogs up the remaining steps. 

Atop the circular platform, Barret and Jessie are the only people left alive, the former taking potshots at a helicopter sporadically circling the tower. Jessie stands at a console embedded into a column jutting out from the center of the platform, and, judging by the increasing panic on her face, it must be hooked to the detonator. 

“It’s on a timer!” Jessie explains as they rush over to her, her voice cracking with pressure. “We only have a few minutes left!”

Eyes wide, Tifa squeezes Jessie’s shoulder as she leans in for a closer look. “Can’t you stop it?” 

“It’s programmed so only a Shinra executive can turn it off.” Jessie shakes her head, her hands trembling over the keys as she inputs command after command. “If anyone else tries, the bombs will go off early. I’m not― I’m not good enough to hack this.” 

Staring at her, Zack finds that his mind has grown strangely quiet, nigh on calm. He has fought enough battles to know that Jessie, shaking and despondent, has reached the end of her tether. Zack, however… Zack refuses to accept that this is how they, how _he_ , will end. Cloud did not save him in the wastelands for their lives to be cut short after only a handful of weeks together. Perhaps he should be grateful for the stolen time, but, with every pleading touch and every soft breath, he has become greedy: with Cloud, he demands a _lifetime_. 

For a moment, Zack closes his eyes and simply breathes. He opens them, unsurprised to see that his body has already shifted to face Cloud, who watches Jessie’s attempts with a grim outlook. With a smile, Zack turns away, leaving him at the console with the others.

“Barret, hold up!” Zack shouts as he jogs up to Barret, approaching during a lull in gunfire. “Stop shooting. I’ve a feeling I know who that is.” 

Barret cranes his head back and scowls, but his right arm does lower a fraction. “Why should I? That fucker was the one who set the bombs.”

“So he probably knows how to disable them,” Zack replies quietly and then waits as Barret’s eyes narrow in realization, the gun falling to hover by his thigh. “Let it come closer.” 

As Zack expected, the helicopter begins to close the distance as soon as Barret drops his guard, Tseng’s familiar silhouette standing in its open doorway. There is nothing, however, that could have prepared him for the figure kneeling by the other side of the doorway. Zack inhales sharply as Aerith meets his eyes across the span of empty air, her shackled hands pressed to the floor of the helicopter. 

Shinra has Aerith―Aerith, who cultivates beautiful flowers despite the toxicity of Midgar’s soil; Aerith, who hears the mournful cries of the planet in pain; Aerith…who is one of the truest friends Zack has ever known. And Shinra plans to steal her away, just like everything and everyone he has ever held dear…all while perpetrating the genocide of countless innocents. Zack cannot suffer another soul, let alone Aerith, to lie bound underneath the cruelty of Shinra’s knife, but it is the latter that ultimately breaks him. 

“ _Aerith!_ ” Tifa screams as she runs toward the railing, the name ringing clear despite the whir of the helicopter’s blades. It settles him back into his body, cooling his rage into something tangible, something _usable_.

“Zack!” Tseng shouts, his expression betraying nothing but utter, repulsive calm. “Get out while you still have time!” 

“What are you doing with Aerith?” Cloud demands. He has since walked up to stand at Zack’s left side, his rifle held in readiness, albeit loosely. 

“That is none of your concern!”

Zack adjusts his grip on the Buster Sword, assessing the situation. The distance between the helicopter and the railing, although lessened, is still substantial. Tseng is empty-handed, holding himself steady with one arm on the rim of the doorway while the other hangs at his side; Zack does not delude himself into thinking that the agent is unarmed, but this detail might grant him a few microseconds in which to turn the tide. Aerith, kneeling and ducked halfway behind a metal wall, might avoid an errant bullet, but the chances of accidentally hitting her increase if the pilot employs evasive maneuvers. As for said pilot: their face is blocked by their headset, but their hair, wavy and red, is…remarkably _familiar_.

In his periphery, Cloud lifts his rifle a sole inch, but Tseng, sharp as ever, notices. 

“Don’t be rash!” Tseng slams his palm against the doorway’s edge. “I have my orders, but they don’t include shooting you!”

“Orders,” Zack repeats, uncaring if his words are lost in the din. He transfers his sword to his left hand and unpockets the spare magazine. “It’s always fucking _orders_ with you lot.” 

By the time the Buster Sword hits the floor, Zack is already across the platform, his left foot balanced on the railing’s edge, his right arm stretched back. He throws the magazine ahead of himself as he leaps off the tower, and Tseng instinctively dodges the projectile and is thus unbalanced when Zack slams into him. They topple―Zack landing on his front, Tseng underneath―but he is wholly prepared for the punch Tseng sends his way.

Rather than parrying it, Zack lets the fist connect to his palm and closes his fingers around it, refusing to let go even as he lands a punch of his own, applying a fraction of his SOLDIER strength. Tseng’s head knocks against the floor with an echoing thud, leaving him visibly dazed. Before he can recover, Zack grabs his shirt collar and tugs him upward, aligning their faces.

“Here’s an order,” Zack growls as Tseng’s bleary eyes focus on his. “ _You’re gonna disable these bombs if it’s the last thing you do._ ” 

Screwing his eyes shut, Tseng nods. Relieved, Zack relaxes his grip and glances toward the cockpit, meeting the pilot’s panicked eyes.

“Cissnei, _please_ , bring us in to―”

“ _Zack!_ ”

He jerks back at Aerith’s warning, but he is too late: the materia flashes green, and Zack falls into fathomless, familiar darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- If you think Cloud wouldn’t be this openly affectionate toward Zack, you’re wrong. The boy nearly lost the love of his life AGAIN. He’s entitled to some PDA.  
> \- You might have noticed that Cloud reacts to the crossdressing differently from how he does in the original game, like how he’s noticeably more insecure. That’s because this is a Cloud who actually remembers his true self, rather than one who has borrowed Zack’s easy confidence. (Also, you can disagree, but that purple dress Cloud originally wore was absolutely hideous. There’s no way Zack wouldn’t have found him something better.)  
> \- Cloud writes the equivalent of “dumbass” on Zack’s arm (but, to his credit, he does erase it afterward).  
> \- The moment Cloud understood that he is 1,000% in love with Zack was when Zack said he would like any version of Cloud. But, as Zack suspects, Cloud was infatuated with him pretty much from their first meeting.  
> \- This fic ended up containing several references to Grecian mythology (blame The Song of Achilles), but I stand by the notion that, since one of the in-game summons is Hades, they’re not out of place. Besides, considering that both Zack and Cloud appear in Hercules’ world in the Kingdom Hearts series, it seems fitting.  
> \- One of my favorite recurring themes in this fic is this concept of Zack’s continuing existence changing the outcome of the game’s narrative. The obvious one is naturally the long-term effect it has on Cloud, but I’ve also enjoyed playing around with smaller things like their relationship with Avalanche. Who knows, maybe Jessie, Wedge, and Biggs would have survived if Zack could have lent them his military experience. They certainly do in this universe.  
> \- I elected not to keep the Reno boss fight because I frankly didn’t want to write it. Considering that Tseng is less of an antagonist in this fic, it stands to reason that he would not deploy agents to further hinder Avalanche’s efforts to prevent the Sector 7 catastrophe.  
> \- If the cinematic intro to CC is any indication, Zack could make that jump to the helicopter with his eyes closed. And yes, Zack is a sweet, soft boy, but he is also a soldier, and he has finally reached his limit.  
> \- Those dang status effects, yo.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings  
> \- Implied past torture  
> \- Canon-typical violence

Zack is floating. He is but a head trapped alone with its thoughts, otherwise senseless to its surroundings. Said thoughts grant him little to work with, unwilling to form into anything concrete or sequential. As soon as clarity begins to creep into the edges of his consciousness, it slips away in a cool whisper, leaving him shivering. Yet, he covets this cold, surrendering to it in hope that it will freeze him and thus weigh him down, restoring him to the tangible world.

He is yet weightless when his sense of smell returns, an acidic yet oddly sweet scent invading the back of his throat. Its sharpness punctuates the coldness, and, in turn, his body begins to respond, awakening in degrees. First to regain awareness is the back of his skull, lodged against an unyielding surface, but whether it rests upon the hardness or juts up against it, he cannot say. His sense of direction eludes him. Regardless, this one sensation heralds the arrival of the rest. Slowly, they trickle from his head, flow through his spine, and pool at the ends of his limbs.

Through his quickening lucidity, Zack finds that the hard surface is not merely at his skull, but is pressing all along his shoulders, his back, his legs. Gravity, in turn, pushes him into these dawning feelings―he must be lying down, resting somewhere not accustomed to coddling its guests. Discomfort. That, too, is a noteworthy sensation. _Important_ , scream his dampened thoughts.

Zack decides to try moving, only to groan quietly when his numbed limbs protest, their leaden weight leaving him weak. He frowns. Perhaps he is ill; it would explain the cold and his scrambled thoughts, if not the subpar accommodations. Surely, in this case, Cloud would have swaddled him in _more_ blankets, not stolen all of them away. His armor, at least, has been removed; his boots, too. At any rate, if Zack is not well, then Cloud must be only a breath’s distance away, soft and no doubt amenable to sharing his body heat. So, rallying his strength, Zack blindly reaches out.

He does not succeed. His hands lift but an increment before his wrists encounter resistance. He tries again, moving sideways instead, to the same end result. He stills as years of training kick in, ordering him to remain silent. _Your hands are bound_ , they whisper, speaking carefully in deference to his molasses-slow thoughts. Then, as Zack shifts where he lies, finding resistance at not only his ankles, but also at his thighs and torso, they add, _They caught you_. 

Zack knows better― _Zack knows better_ ―but it does not stop him from snapping his eyes open to the dim ceiling tiles above and thrashing against the restraints. He does not take time to observe his surroundings, too overcome by the animal instinct demanding that he free himself, but it would not matter. All labs, he has found, are fundamentally the same, from the columns of Mako to the restraints capable of withstanding even a SOLDIER’s ire. 

“Ah, it’s awake.”

Zack freezes, straining against his bindings, before his limbs go utterly slack, dropping him the short distance to the surgical table. He knows this voice―he recognizes its grating, raspy tone. This voice does not award obedience, but it punishes fidgetiness, taking no care to soften the arc of its knife. If he does not move, Zack tells himself, perhaps it will forget that he is here, but its owner’s gaze soon finds his, catching it for only a second before traveling elsewhere. 

Hojo stands before him, looming as he casts a clinical eye along his body. Zack does not dare breathe, watching the scientist’s face for any signs of undue curiosity, and hopes that he will be left alone. Memories of screams demand to slip past his defenses, overwhelming him until he finds himself trembling, the cold doing nothing to smother the response. It is the waiting, he remembers, that he could never stomach: not knowing when the pain would come, but living with the certainty that it would. 

“I recall this sample,” Hojo finally says, turning his head away. A man in a white lab coat hovers not far from them, scrolling through a tablet. “The trial contained two samples,” Hojo continues as the assistant nods in agreement, “ending in failure, correct?” 

“Yes, this one was recorded as a failure four years into the trial. The other sample’s results were―” The assistant squints at the tablet, his face awash in a pale glow. “―inconclusive, but discouraging. Both samples were pronounced deceased about a little over two months ago, following an escape attempt.” 

Hojo scoffs, reaches out to prod Zack’s forearm, and purses his lips when that elicits a flinch. “Deceased?” he repeats, crossing his arms behind his back and leaning forward. Despite himself, Zack shuts his eyes, only to encounter a mirror image of the man, hunched and speculative as he inspects a blond boy. “If that is so, then we must have a traitor in our midst, or else this is something that requires further study. Set it aside for now―I have other specimens to attend to.” 

“Yes, Professor.” 

With that, Hojo steps away, his shoes scuffing against the tiles, and Zack exhales. The fear remains, but it ebbs as the distance between him and Hojo grows, allowing him a moment of respite, a chance to gather his scattered thoughts. The peace does not last long, however, as it is soon broken by a frustrated sigh. Fighting against his better instincts, Zack slowly rotates his head and watches as the scientist types rapidly into a computer console.

“You can never have too many samples, at the rate they expire,” Hojo mutters, the words echoing across the lab, “but it’s a pity the other one didn’t survive.”

And then, in one world-ending moment, Zack understands that he has no need to fear after all, for the dead do not feel pain. 

The memories, at least, return courteously―not with a fanfare, but a whispered greeting. In between one second and the next, they are simply there, rattling around in his brain: the support pillar, the imminent bombs, Aerith’s bound hands, and Cloud’s sharp inhale as Zack dropped the Buster Sword and ran, not even sparing him a parting glance… His gambit had been their last hope, but here Zack lies, trapped and suffocating in the memory of a flash of Mako and subsequent darkness.

Cloud, therefore, is dead, buried in the ruins of Zack’s failure. Aerith, then, is here with him, being picked apart by Shinra until there will be nothing left of her. Zack could not save them, so he will gladly follow in their wake.

The sound that leaves his mouth is long and keening. Not a second later, it echoes back to him, only warped, forming the characters of his name. Twice, high-pitched and urgent. He does not grant this more than a moment’s thought, however, and listens instead to the screams escaping his own throat, wondering, with a bystander’s curiosity, when they will cease.

“Deal with that!” Hojo barks. 

The voice no longer instills terror, so Zack does not understand why the assistant scrambles at the command, but he does not complain when it results in the man appearing at Zack’s side, a full syringe held in his steady hands. 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Zack whispers, sobbing as the sedative enters his bloodstream. He prays that he will never again wake.

\---

Zack loses time. 

For all he knows, eons must be passing. He once lived four years in the span of what felt like weeks. He would not put it past Shinra to entomb him forever, encapsuling him in green like a fossil suspended in off-color amber. Still, whatever sedative they injected into him is not as well tailored to SOLDIERs as he longs for―even it cannot fully combat the Mako humming in his core.

In the moments between oblivion, lucidity preys upon him. It has since lost its allure, so Zack barely heeds its call, remaining reluctantly in the realm between waking and sleeping. This is where the not-dreams find him: lines of spoken thought or visual recollections, all playing on a repetitive loop he cannot escape. At first, they are innocent enough―Aerith laughing as her red dress sways, the uptick of Cloud’s mouth as he whispers, _I forgot you were technically an officer_ ―but they eventually sour. The red is not cloth, but Aerith’s blood, while Cloud’s mouth does not move at all. 

When he is lucky, the sedatives drown these visions, allowing him rest; when he is less so, he resurfaces in the lab, confused and half wild. His instincts take over then, fighting against the restraints keeping him prisoner. With a clear goal in mind, he does not allow himself to remember why death would be a welcome reprieve, but even these sparks of rebellion do not last. There is always another faceless lab coat at his side, offering up a higher dosage to the altar of his grief. 

He thanks them every time. 

\---

Zack dreams of a train. He lies atop its roof, the vibrations of its churning wheels pulsing from his torso to the ends of his bare feet. It is quiet, for a train, and prone to making sharp turns that tilt his head sideward and back. The wind, too, is nearly silent―far milder than the steady tapping sound echoing across the tracks. That must be the conductor, Zack concludes. They are pushing the train along on foot, setting an unhurried pace. 

Hoping to see the sky, Zack looks up, only to be met with the confines of a tunnel, its ceiling tiled and untouched by starlight. He shuts his eyes with a huff and focuses on the train’s gentle engine, wondering if it will soothe his disappointment. And yet, before he can fully relax, the train turns again―twice in quick succession―Zack’s head swaying in time to the abrupt movements. Just as quickly, it stops, seemingly having arrived at its destination. 

Disoriented, he opens his eyes, expecting to see the curved rafters of the station’s overhang, but a figure hovers over him instead, blocking the view. Despite the dim lighting, its face is instantly recognizable. Unwittingly, Zack frowns―and then frowns at himself. He does not understand why seeing his old friend inspires this response. Had they argued? Fought over train tickets? 

“Zack, I’m truly sorry,” Tseng whispers, derailing Zack’s winding thoughts even as he confirms his suspicions. “I never wanted to bring you back to Hojo.”

Zack cannot recall when he boarded this train, let alone why, but this dreaded name breaks past the barriers to his memory, striking at the heart of him. He does not even notice that he has stiffened until Tseng presses a hand against his shoulder, squeezing. Breath hitched, Zack closes his eyes and forces himself to untense, loath to display his weakness so openly before a dubious ally. 

With a final squeeze, Tseng releases him and turns aside, finally revealing the overhang of the train station. Or…not a station, Zack realizes with a slow inhale, but a small room, its four corners plainly visible from where he lies. Before he can make sense of this, Tseng reappears, wielding a familiar syringe. Zack cannot summon the energy to care.

“I’m sorry about this,” Tseng murmurs as something cold and wet swipes at the bend of Zack’s elbow. His hand, gloved in something smooth, wraps around his forearm. “Your friend is coming for you. I’ll do what I can to make sure he finds you.” 

“Friend?” Zack repeats. _My friends are all dead_ , he wants to add, but his mouth will not obey him. He sighs and drifts away.

\---

Zack comes to, bleary and addled, with the unerring impression that something drew him into consciousness against all odds. Even now, his body protests against him, beckoning him toward sleep, but he cannot shake the unease. His heart is beating out of his chest. Not a second later, he understands why. 

The voice that calls out Zack’s name is familiar, beloved, and _riddled with pain_. 

Zack scrambles to his knees, but his strength gives way as he makes to stand, tipping him sideways into a free fall. He lands with a whimper, having dropped farther than logic would dictate. Once more, the darkness threatens to reclaim him, edging into the forefront of his mind. Zack pleads with it as he attempts to crawl toward the voice―its cries now bordering on manic―but the darkness is pitiless.

It swallows him whole.

\---

There are hands cradling his face. 

Zack knows these hands―recognizes their touch better than his own―but he, too, knows that they are not here. Cannot be here. They are but a fever dream summoned from the fathoms of his grief. Soon, the thumbs will stop stroking the lines of his cheeks. Soon, they will curl and begin to carve into his skin, searching for bone, and Zack will know, yet again, to quell his hope. But, for now, the hands are gentle, so he does not flinch away.

Then, a whisper breaks the silence, frantic and muffled: _He’s not waking up._

Zack could cry. He can accept the familiarity of the phantom touches, but he is weak to this voice, imagined or otherwise. His visions have addressed him before―have cajoled and screamed in the same breath―yet never have they spoken with such cruel clarity, taunting him over what he has lost. He steels himself against the delirium, determined to ignore it, when the voice speaks once more, clear as sunshine cresting into dawn.

“ _Z-Zack_.”

It is the stutter that ultimately breaks him. Even if this dream will soon surrender to a nightmare, his name, spoken so brokenly, echoes into his chest and syncopates with the sluggish beat of his heart. Zack shifts toward its siren call without delay, his mouth parting to respond, but the sound does not leave his throat, trapped at the base of his lungs. The hands at his face tighten, no doubt itching to inflict damage. 

Zack tenses as something new touches his arm. It presses along the inside of his elbow to the sound of a second voice muttering under its breath as though cataloging observations. A scientist, Zack realizes with a pang; these particular visions, he has found, are always true. 

“He’s drugged,” they say, raising their volume―and Zack stops breathing. He knows _this_ voice, too. “He needs Esuna. Scoot back,” they― _she_ ―orders, and then, when the hands do not so much as twitch, she adds, “It’ll only take a moment.” 

Zack’s silent protests go unheeded as the hands reluctantly retreat, leaving him untethered, but he has not even begun to gather his strength to call them back when he is abruptly infused with a green glow, the rejuvenating light sneaking past his eyelids. In seconds, the muddle of delirium and countless sedations comes to a head, lanced out of his consciousness with brutal efficiency. All at once, the world is solid once more. His thoughts are linear, the floor at his back is grounding, and…and the hands caressing his face are _real_. 

Zack opens his eyes―and promptly chokes on a sob at the face hovering scant inches from his own. 

“ _Cloud_ ,” he breathes, voice hitching at the sight of Cloud’s beloved eyes meeting his, too ardent to be anything but true. Whatever Cloud finds in Zack’s gaze must satisfy, for the intensity in his expression quickly splinters, leaving behind something fragile and private. Desperate to mend the hurt, Zack reaches out with leaden arms, folds his hands across Cloud’s nape, and tugs. Cloud goes willingly, crowding into Zack’s space without hesitation as he aligns their faces, only an inch left between them. 

“You’re alive,” Zack whispers, awed. He cannot help but search Cloud’s features for signs of age, attempting to gauge how long Shinra has held him captive. It is of little consequence, he decides, not when Cloud has returned to him, not when he has _saved_ him. “ _You’re alive_ ,” he repeats, adjusting his grip to lower Cloud that final inch, and whimpers when their foreheads knock together gently. 

“That’s my line,” Cloud protests weakly, but melts into the touch. Cloud’s hands slide away from his face, only for his arms to wrap around Zack’s head, framing it in the box of his limbs. 

With Cloud’s upper arms blocking his peripherals, Zack is utterly blind to anything but the blond’s shadowed face, but he cannot find it in himself to complain. His world, for too long, has been devoid of Cloud’s presence, his grief having mined an emptiness within him. He will not suffer guilt for reveling in Cloud’s sweet smile and homey scent, for inviting them in to fill the chasm with their softness.

“Is he okay?” asks a distant voice― _Tifa’s_ ―followed by another replying, “Let’s give them some space,” the latter undoubtedly belonging to Aerith. He nearly beckons them over, itching to squeeze Aerith in a life-affirming embrace, but he is distracted when Cloud adds pressure to the join of their foreheads, silently demanding attention. He is crying, Zack realizes with a start, the tears falling in sporadic drops against his cheekbones. With a wordless murmur, Zack runs his fingers through the short, blond hairs at his nape and swallows back his own sobs as water pools in the corners of his eyes. 

“You said you were gonna stop sacrificing yourself,” Cloud whispers, his wet voice doing nothing to stifle the accusatory tone. “Stop _doing_ that.” 

Zack winces and mutters, “I swear I didn’t mean to.” With his newfound clarity, courtesy of Aerith’s healing, the memories of his last-ditch effort to save Sector 7 rise in his consciousness, returning his regard with unbridled judgment. Insensate with desperation, he had quickly accepted Tseng’s surrender, perhaps too relieved to find a modicum of decency in his old friend to question its sincerity. 

“I was gonna get Tseng to disable the detonator, but he got the upper hand, in the end.” He sighs. One would think he would be desensitized to betrayal by now, but the fresh sting of it leaves him hurting. As though in tune to his thoughts, Cloud tightens his arms around Zack’s head―their close, shared space a welcome comfort―and nods haltingly.

“When he…after he… You just―” Cloud shuts his eyes with a sharp inhale. “―slumped over. I thought you were _dead_. They took you away before I could reach you.” 

Zack swallows, struggling to speak past the burn in his throat. “I’m sorry, Cloud. I…thought you were dead, too. When I woke up, I was alone, and when I remembered the pillar…” He pauses, frowning to himself. “Wait. If you’re here, then Sector 7―is it…?” 

Cloud stills beneath his hands, his quick breaths hitching into stillness―and Zack shuts his eyes, intuiting the answer through the mournful curve of Cloud’s back. The last years of his life have been an enlightening foray into the evils Shinra is willing to wreak, but the scope of this act, of dooming countless innocents to execution… For every refugee that escaped, how many more must have been sacrificed? He cannot comprehend it, let alone condone it. Standing atop a maintenance tower, witnessing a dear friend’s abuse, something within Zack had broken free. It rises now once more, pulsing and _angry_. 

_Shinra_ , it says, _must pay_.

Zack opens his eyes when Cloud shifts, the latter leaning back far enough to comfortably meet his gaze. His grim expression echoes Zack’s, wordlessly confirming Sector 7’s horrific fate. “We barely escaped ourselves,” Cloud admits, gaze dropping to stare into the middle distance. “We used some cables to swing off the tower as everything went off around us.” 

“Were you hurt? _Are_ you hurt?” The urge to ask is instinctive, as is the consequent need to slip his hands from Cloud’s neck and run them across his torso, searching for the remnants of injury. Overfocused on his task, Zack startles as Cloud catches one of said hands in his own, shaking it in rebuke. 

“ _You’re_ asking if _I’m_ hurt?” Cloud demands, teary eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re the one I found in _Hojo’s lab_.” 

Zack cannot help it: he recoils at the name―and regrets it immediately when Cloud’s expression devolves into panic. With a close-lipped yelp, Cloud crowds back in, pressing his weight to Zack’s chest as he tips their foreheads together. “Sorry, I’m not hurt, I’m fine,” he babbles, dropping their hands into the curve of Zack’s neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. We had to regroup with the others before…” He trails off, shaking his head minutely. “It doesn’t matter. I never should’ve let them take you in the first place.” 

“It’s okay,” Zack replies automatically, reeling with relief at the confirmation that little time indeed must have passed between now and his capture. “It’s not your fault or mine. Blame Shinra, remember?” 

Cloud nods slowly at that, eyes cast downward in dismay, so Zack tightens his grip on the blond’s waist, having left his hand there in his perusal. “Speaking of,” Cloud murmurs, “Shinra’s blaming Avalanche for what happened to Sector 7, claiming they planned the attack.” 

“Of course they are.” Zack sighs, wishing he were even a touch surprised. “Barret and the others, are they…?”

“They’re all okay. Barret’s here, but the others stayed back to start fighting Shinra’s bullshit.”

Free of his blinders, Zack takes a moment to inspect the selfsame “here,” darting his eyes sideward. The dim cell he finds himself in is painfully small, populated with just a toilet in a corner and an unadorned bench―presumably for sleeping―not two feet from where he lies on the ground. He blinks as a hazy memory ambles into the forefront of his mind, revealing that, in his delirium, he had fallen from the bench and crawled toward the then-closed door, only to pass out before he could respond to…Cloud’s voice? Had that been a hallucination? 

“I think,” Zack says, measuring out his words, “I dreamed you calling out my name.” Before he can think better of it, he fixes Cloud with a wary look. “You sounded hurt.” 

“Oh, um―” In the span of a second, Cloud appears to shrink in on himself, ducking his head past Zack’s cheek. “I wasn’t hurt, but…I did do that. We― We were all caught and imprisoned here. We’d found Aerith, but she didn’t know where you were or if―” He shrugs, the movement too sharp to be casual. “I only stopped ‘cause the guard threatened to sedate me.” 

Zack’s heart throbs in empathy at the halting admission, but the sorrow is just as swiftly subsumed by the sharpness of relief. Despite the agony that they have both suffered in their separation, the joy of reunion does much to stifle it into silence. How many times, after all, have either Zack or Cloud courted death, only to survive? Another might interpret this as the universe attempting to ensure a fate one or both had dodged, but Zack does not see it this way― _cannot_. No, whether by their own free will or the grace of the gods, they are no longer fated for death. 

So, with a smile, Zack releases Cloud’s hand to tug on his shoulder instead, silently asking him to lift his head. Cloud obeys with a mulish expression, but it fails to deter Zack, who slips his hand in to cradle his cheek, knowing just when to deftly provide affection and encouragement in turn. As he expected, Cloud proceeds to sigh into the touch, his eyes momentarily fluttering closed before snapping back open into obstinacy, glowering as though daring Zack to address his panic.

Zack would never mock him―not for openly expressing his love―so he simply strokes a thumb across Cloud’s cheek and says, “Thank you for finding me.” 

Much to Zack’s delight, his words cause the stubborn glint in Cloud’s eyes to stoke to a blaze, the fire welcome after the quiescence of tears. “Don’t thank me,” Cloud grouses, and then, tilting his head, adds, “It was purely selfish,” before meeting Zack’s smiling mouth with his own.

Eyes falling shut, Zack hums into the kiss and tracks the sensation as it travels through every nerve of his being, scouring it of every uninvited touch he was subjected to in the past hours. While not deep, the kiss exudes foretaste, promising a thorough exploration in the future to come. The middle of a rescue mission, after all, leaves little time for amorous asides. As such, they soon move away as one, sharing wry smiles as they watch each other, inordinately shy. 

“We should probably get moving,” Cloud mutters after a moment, albeit reluctantly. 

Despite knowing that they should not linger, Zack still huffs out his disappointment. “I _guess_. We’re in Shinra HQ, aren’t we?” He winces when Cloud gives a confirming nod. “Yeah, let’s not stick around.” 

With Cloud supporting one side, Zack begins the arduous process of standing up, half expecting his legs to give out on him out of spite. Surprisingly, they remain steadfast, if a little weak from the countless sedations and hours of fasting. As long as he concentrates, however, he can remain upright of his own volition, but Cloud insists on helping, cupping Zack’s elbow in the curve of his left palm for support while the right holds his shoulder. Judging by his expression, this is less to do with Zack’s strength and more to do with Cloud’s worry, so Zack leaves him be, allowing the blond to lead them to the doorway. 

Cloud is both weaponless and armorless―his gear likely confiscated by guards―so they slip past the threshold together with ease. The corridor beyond is lined with rows of cell doors, some standing ajar, but Zack barely acknowledges their existence, gaze landing on the two figures waiting across the way. He stumbles toward them, Cloud scrambling to keep up. 

Her back to the wall, Tifa glances up first, but Aerith―locked in her arms―twists her head around not a moment later, her expression morphing into one of teary relief. Anticipating her, Tifa quickly releases Aerith, who then meets Zack’s one-armed hug with startling strength, tucking her arms around his torso and hooking Cloud’s arm into the embrace in her haste. Not to be outdone, Zack gathers her in closely, thanking whatever deities he can name for keeping her safe until their friends found her. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers, speaking into her hair. 

Aerith shakes her head, an angry sound leaving her throat. “ _I’m_ fine. You― I heard you screaming, and when you didn’t answer me, I feared the worst.” 

Cloud’s hand on his shoulder tightens, but he does not intercede. A part of Zack wishes that he would, if only because Zack can offer no response that would placate her, let alone Cloud himself, who hovers worriedly at his side. So, rather than revisit that memory, he says a simple, “I’m okay,” and leans back, squeezing Aerith’s shoulder before letting go to make the parting less abrupt. “We can talk more later, but for now, we should really get out of here.” 

“Yeah, there’ll be plenty to talk about,” Cloud agrees, tone heavy with portent. Surprised, Zack spares him a glance, only to turn the other way when the blond pointedly jerks his chin at something behind him. At the end of the corridor, half hidden by a corner, lies a slumped-over guard in a pool of blood, seemingly dead.

Zack looks back at his friends, surprised as their callousness, but Tifa lifts her open palms, shaking them hurriedly. “That guard was already dead when we got out,” she blurts. “We don’t know who did it. Or who let us out.” 

Cloud nods, gaze troubled. “I zoned out for a sec. When I looked up, the door was open.” 

Frowning, Zack glances at the body, noting that the wound on its torso must have been the killing blow. It seems…messy, considering the circumstances. Given that their rescuer did not reveal themselves, the likelihood that they are also a fugitive from Shinra is low, so they must be someone working from within the company. Once, Zack would have hedged his bets on Tseng, but he has since lost trust in him. Cissnei is a possible candidate, even if he has trouble imagining her undermining Shinra’s affairs so directly, nor does the bloody corpse seem in keeping with her style. Then again, if one wished to appear innocent of a crime, leaving one’s mark would admittedly be counterproductive. 

“Maybe one of the Turks?” Zack offers, sounding unsure even to his own ears. 

Cloud shrugs, seemingly willing to set the matter aside for now, and gestures at Tifa. “You found our gear?” 

“Yeah―” Tifa points down the corridor, hand clad in her fighter’s glove. “―in the surveillance room.”

“Thanks,” Cloud says and, still latched onto Zack’s arm, begins to walk them toward the doorway at the end, taking measured steps. Rather than gripe at Cloud’s oversolicitous behavior, Zack takes the opportunity to observe the dead body, searching it for any signs of a struggle. Thus distracted, when they finally reach the bend in the corridor, Zack jolts at the sight of something large and red in his periphery. 

The “something” appears to be lion-like in appearance, maned and sporting a flaming tail-tip, but its uncanniest features are its tattoos and the engraved cuffs worn on all four of its limbs. It does not resemble any monster Zack has ever encountered. Breath hitched, he watches it warily, but, although it regards him with a steady gaze, it does not so much as twitch in his direction. Indeed, as though registering his alarm, it settles back on its haunches. 

“You must be this man’s mate,” it says in a low voice, prompting Zack to conclude that Aerith’s Esuna spell must have missed purging a chemical or two. However, he was raised to be polite, so at the risk of sounding delusional, he says a quiet “hello.” 

Cloud, because he is less polite, huffs out a laugh and says, “You’re not imagining things. This is Red XIII. We found him with Aerith. Ho―” He cuts himself off, shooting Zack an anxious glance. “They were experimenting on him.”

Considering, Zack slowly nods. As much as his curiosity begs to be satisfied―could, for instance, Red XIII speak before Shinra got their hands on him?―he knows better than to question someone’s existence, let alone rifle in their trauma. Thus, he merely dips his head in sympathy and says, “I’m sorry. They experimented on me, too.” 

At that, Red XIII grants him what appears to be a speculative look, eyes narrowed, before he tilts his head up toward Cloud. “I’ve scouted ahead. There’s something you all need to see.” 

“Okay, hold on. We gotta grab our gear.” 

With that, Cloud gently tugs Zack past the corpse and into the open doorway of the surveillance room. The space inside is relatively narrow, the left wall consumed by a metal shelving unit filled with bins, while the right is home to a console and an impressive array of screens. Zack assumes that they had previously kept an eye on each prison cell, but they, as well as the console itself, have been summarily destroyed―a result of someone covering their tracks. 

Barret stands by the wall of bins, grimly fiddling with his gun arm. “I found your shit,” he says, waving his flesh hand toward the pile at his feet. Said pile, Zack is shocked to find, includes two sets of SOLDIER armor and his pair of boots. “Those assholes stole some of my ammo. I swear I had more than this.” 

Wasting no time, Cloud releases Zack’s arm, steps over to the gear, and begins suiting up with the ease of a practiced soldier. “Be grateful they didn’t destroy the gun itself.” 

Barret scoffs, but does not argue the issue. “I’m gonna check if that sorry bastard out there has any on him.” 

As Barret makes to leave, Zack shuffles sideward to clear the path to the door, only to glance up in surprise when the former drops a hand on his shoulder. “Glad to see you’re okay,” Barret says, gruff voice utterly sincere. “Thanks for keeping Marlene safe.” 

“Oh.” Zack blinks, admittedly having forgotten that he had a part in that. Between the failure at the support pillar and the misery of capture, this one act of kindness was swallowed into oblivion. It warms him, now, to know that at least one innocent was spared an untimely end. “Thanks. And you’re welcome.” 

With a parting pat, Barret exits the room, leaving Zack to wander toward Cloud, who has since finished donning his armor. He seems lost in thought, frowning down at the Buster Sword resting in his steady grip. Zack’s heart sings to see it; his personal claim to the weapon has weakened as of late, but it is the one remaining connection he has to his late mentor. He could not bear the shame were he to lose it after all these years. 

“You should keep it for now,” Zack says after a moment longer of watching Cloud’s indecision. “I don’t think I could lift it right now,” he adds when Cloud looks up in alarm. It is true enough: while standing does not require much effort, attempting to swing around a dense broadsword in his condition would only lead to accidents.

Cloud visibly waffles, sword wavering, but he is quick to sheathe it when Zack leans over to gather his waist cuirass. “Wait, let me help you with that.”

“It’s fine,” Zack replies cheerily, gaze lowered as he presses the cuirass to his torso. “I could and have literally done this in my sleep.” He stills, however, when Cloud’s hand appears in his line of sight, fingertips grazing the dips between his knuckles. 

“Please let me help?” Cloud murmurs, not meeting his eyes when Zack raises them in question. 

Zack understands the need for physical reassurance―he himself has felt it every day from the moment they escaped Nibelheim, the sensation spiking whenever Shinra’s gaze brushed the tail end of their retreat. He recognizes it now in Cloud, so he murmurs his assent, releasing the cuirass into his waiting arms. 

Cloud, propelled by a sense of urgency thrumming in the air, does not dally, but each and every one of his movements rings of love, efficient and careful. Zack watches him with no lack of fondness, shifting his limbs to allow better access to the buckles. It is only when Cloud has finished that he begins to linger, adjusting the strap of Zack’s pauldron as he stands before him, expression veiled. Zack would like nothing more than to press him into the wall and caress his defenses away in sloughs, but this is neither the time nor place, so he simply ducks down and presses a soft kiss to the line of Cloud’s jaw. 

“Thanks, sunshine,” he whispers, smiling at the hitch in Cloud’s breath. “Come on. Let’s go join the others.” Not waiting to see if Cloud will protest―for he could not deny him anything―Zack drags them out of the room to where their friends patiently await them, each watching the end of the corridor with weapons in hand. Red XIII glances back to mark their return, and Zack nods, confirming their readiness. “Lead the way.” 

\---

As they follow Red XIII out of the cell block, they remain on high alert, scanning for any guards, but they proceed unhindered, the hallway absent of all sounds save for the eerie drone of the ventilation system. Unarmed and exhausted, Zack cannot help but feel exposed, worrying that the lack of resistance belies a greater threat they are yet unable to perceive. Cloud, too, seems to sense it, having released Zack’s arm to unsheathe his sword. Still, he stays close, his shoulder occasionally grazing his, for which Zack is eternally grateful. 

Then, they find the second body, and the empty hallways suddenly make sense. 

The nameless scientist lies prone, his blood seeping into the white of his lab coat. Despite himself, Zack freezes. For all that the body is visibly lifeless, the reaction is instinctual, his hindbrain cowering at its presence―and what its proximity implies. To shut his eyes would only stall the inevitable, so Zack clenches his jaw, lifts his gaze from the corpse, and stares. 

The room beyond flows seamlessly from the hallway, its open bay doors courteously welcoming them inside. It is high-ceilinged, dimly lit, and bursting full of crates―a storage space, at first glance―but Zack sees past its innocence, notes its trappings of metal and flashes of reinforced glass. He is too familiar with being stored away to wallow in Mako-induced silence not to recognize it for what it is: a precursor to a torture chamber.

A hand slips into his own, small and unassuming, and squeezes. Zack does not startle, but only just. He inhales, finding that he has been holding his breath, and turns his head leftward to meet Aerith’s eyes. They glint with an anger Zack has rarely ever encountered in her demeanor, tempered only by the sympathy pressing into the palm of his hand. Despite the sway of the fear clawing at his throat, her fire burns through it with ease, leaving only ashes in its wake―still present, but manageable. 

Suddenly self-conscious, Zack looks away from her gaze, only to commit the fatal mistake of finding Cloud’s, who watches him brokenly, expression lost. Zack shakes his head, not knowing how else to reassure him, but is distracted when Aerith presses something round into his hand, holding his fingers against it before releasing him entirely. He suspects that he already knows the nature of her gift, but he angles it toward himself anyway, huffing out a breath at the familiar green glow. 

The materia in his palm pulses with heat―a fire type, he is almost certain―nigh on humming to be unmoored onto a battlefield. Literal years have passed since Zack has commanded one, but its whispers slip into his mind with ease; it would take but a single focused thought to unleash it upon an enemy. He feels safer with it.

With a genuine smile, Zack nods at Aerith in gratitude and tucks the materia toward his leg, keeping it close. Her expression softens at that, and she steps away with an answering nod. She hurries to catch up to the rest of the group, who have since entered the storage room, leaving Zack alone with Cloud. Loath to address what just occurred, he makes to follow, only to swallow when Cloud catches his free hand, halting his momentum. 

Zack expects sadness. He expects pity. He does not expect the momentary press of Cloud’s shoulder to his and the subsequent “I’m here.” Not waiting for a response, Cloud gently tugs him forward by the hand, Buster Sword wielded in the other, and leads them inside. Zack, perhaps, should feel embarrassed at needing to be coddled, but he cannot help the pang of relief the touch elicits. 

_This is not a delirium_ , it reassures. _Cloud_ is _here_.

With Cloud’s hand in his, the cavernous space is not as oppressive, nor is it, Zack realizes upon joining the others, as horrifying as what it stores―or, in this case, does not store. The immense metal dome jutting out from the floor must have once been a containment unit, but its door has since been clawed off its hinges, the resulting destruction resembling a blast. He…has been here before, he thinks, but he cannot for the life of him remember what this housed, or whether he ever knew. Whatever it was, it has left another dead scientist in its wake, as well as a fresh, unbroken trail of blood, the red swath leading to an elevator. 

“The Jenova specimen,” says Red XIII with a nod at the debris, oblivious to the hitch of Zack’s breath. “Looks like it went to the upper floor via the elevator.” 

_Jenova_. This name, Zack knows, is important. It alights on the wings of half formed memories, murmuring in forgotten voices and nipping at the thoughts he keeps chained in the back of his mind. This is a name belonging to Nibelheim, to a basement hidden in the confines of an abandoned mansion. It had floated above the proceedings in between sedations, being lazily batted back and forth by whatever researchers happened to be observing them or, on the worst days, tinkering with them. 

And yet, between the wreckage and the blood, Zack cannot make sense of what this could mean. 

At his side, Cloud scoffs and tosses his head back toward the entrance. “If something’s loose, sucks for them. We should get out while they’re distracted.” 

“You have a point,” Tifa agrees, glancing with concern at Aerith, who responds with an unimpressed look. 

Barret, on the other hand, seems ready to argue, so, rather than subject them all to the inevitable back-and-forth, Zack pointedly shakes Cloud’s hand. “Cloud,” he says quietly when the blond immediately turns his head, “remember when I said I couldn’t remember what they did to you? I…I think I’m starting to. Jenova. It’s…something to do with that.” 

“With Sephiroth’s mother?” Cloud replies, eyes widening with confusion, and…well. It appears that Zack has forgotten―or else blocked out―far more than he initially suspected. 

This should probably rate at a higher concern than it currently does, but if Cloud’s memory is more intact than they assumed, then, between the two of them, perhaps the truth will reveal itself. He can only pray that it will not steer them down the path Genesis and Angeal once trod, let alone the one Sephiroth annihilated. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Cloud hisses out, rubbing at his temple. “We should…probably follow it, then,” he accedes, the words clearly being dragged out of him. 

“Probably for the best,” Zack agrees even as he eyes the elevator with dread. 

He knows where it leads, would rather set it ablaze with the materia pulsing in his palm, but the thought of making a further spectacle of his fear is sickening. Thus, with a parting squeeze, Zack releases Cloud’s hand and strides onward, the blond falling into step not a second later while the rest follow in silence. Barret and Tifa file into the elevator last, the latter pressing the button to command their ascent. Propped against the back wall, Zack cannot help but be grateful for the buffer they grant him when the journey proves painfully short, the cross-hatched door showing glimpses of the space beyond when they arrive at their destination. With a groan, it slides open, and Zack walks out. 

_It’s just a room_ , he thinks, darting his gaze about as he follows his cohort out into the lab, eyes catching on a cylindrical glass chamber, undoubtedly intended for observing “samples.” 

Zack quickly looks away, shaking his head. He is lucid, unbound, and reunited with Cloud, whose own fears, if he has any, cannot pierce the bulwark of his glowering fury. Channeling his strength, Zack inhales slowly and forces himself to focus on the task at hand. It helps, too, that the lab remains inexplicably empty save for the blood, the trail broken only by the occasional corpse left like a conspicuous bread crumb. Thankfully, it leads out into the corridors, and Zack can heave an internal sigh of relief as they leave the lab and its hazy nightmares behind. 

Weapons at the ready, they make their way through the corridors, slowing only at the sight of another body or at what can only be described as massive claw marks embedded into the wall. Seeing them, Zack feels unaccountable guilt: if whatever wreaked this destruction is indeed Sephiroth’s mother, then no wonder the general lost it, in the end. Whether by nature or the entropy of time, his descent into ruin had already been preordained―all because of Shinra and its self-proclaimed godhood.

The trail takes them up another floor to a set of administrative offices―its staff all slaughtered in varying degrees of viciousness―which opens to a lobby containing a pair of grand staircases. Even though Zack has never been here before, he knows inherently that there is only one man who would deem himself qualified to be found at the apex of such a regal incline. Thus, Zack cannot find it in himself to be surprised when the final level ends up being dedicated to a single office, its backdrop of floor-to-ceiling windows only upstaged by the immense desk situated in the center of the room. Neither is it a shock to find that the man slumped over behind the desk―President Shinra, no less―is dead.

What is, admittedly, a shock is the katana jutting out from the president’s back like a heraldic flag, its infamous owner nowhere in sight. 

“Told you I couldn’t have killed Sephiroth,” Cloud deadpans quietly. Unable to respond, Zack slowly shakes his head, reeling from disbelief.

“Is that Sephiroth’s sword?” Tifa cries out in horror. Jogging forward, she inspects the katana from across the desktop, seemingly unwilling to get too close. “Does that mean…he’s alive?” 

“Looks like it,” Cloud responds, tone grim. “Last I saw it, it fell into the Nibelheim reactor with him. And I don’t know if anyone else could wield it.” 

Barret scoffs, gesturing at the unmoving body with a wave of his arm. “Who the fuck cares who did it? This means the end of Shinra!” 

Distantly, beneath the stupor and a worrying amount of satisfaction, Zack feels that something simply does not add up. Perhaps it is no longer relevant to refer to his memories of a friendlier Sephiroth as a basis, but this setup feels…strange. The Sephiroth he knew would never have needed to employ stealth to dispatch his opponent. He would have met them head-on, not stabbed them in the back before they could even rise from their seat. It is strange, too, that he would leave Masamune behind, even for the sake of a statement. 

Staring at said katana, Zack nearly misses something flashing in his periphery. He startles, zeroing in on a column standing to the right of the desk. “Someone’s here!” 

As soon as he shouts the warning, a besuited man sprints out from his hiding place―a Shinra executive, Zack would hazard to guess―and angles for the stairs, only to be snagged by Barret and Tifa, the pair catching him by his arms. 

“P-please don’t kill me!” the man wails, struggling against their custody. 

“Stop twitching and maybe we’ll consider it,” Barret orders, smirking when the man immediately stills. “Tell us what happened here.” 

“Se― Sephiroth came,” the man stutters, expression haunted. “I saw him with my own eyes!” 

“You really saw him?” Cloud demands, stalking forward. The man jolts as he looks over at him, only to hesitate as though he cannot decide whether to focus on Cloud or on Zack looming behind him. Not averse to intimidation tactics, Zack brandishes his materia with a show of innocence, grinning when the man follows its pathway with trepidation. 

“Yeah, I saw him!” The man shakes his head in bewilderment, eyes darting between all of them in turn. “Why would I lie about this? I heard his voice, too! He, he was saying something about not letting us have the Promised Land!” 

“What?” Tifa exclaims, and Zack is ready to echo her until she adds, “Does that mean the Promised Land really exists, then? Why would Sephiroth want to protect it from Shinra?” 

Barret frowns, catching her gaze over the man’s head. “Wouldn’t that put him on our side?” 

“Sephiroth, on our side?” Cloud repeats, tone dripping with contempt. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

With that, Zack is forced to concede that he has utterly lost the threads to this conversation. He cannot begin to guess what a so-called Promised Land might refer to, let alone what Shinra would want to do with it and why Sephiroth’s shade would resort to assassination to avoid their interference. Considering that he has, however, spent the last hours sedated, he would argue that he deserves a pass. Still, before he can ask for clarification, he is derailed by an annoyingly familiar whirring noise. 

Instinctively, he looks toward the wall of windows and then sighs when a helicopter, the Shinra logo proudly emblazoned on its side, flies into sight. As they collectively watch, it hovers over the terrace, adjusting its position as it descends to the pad below. 

Zack jerks back at the sound of a pained grunt and promptly swears. Their hostage, noticing their distraction, must have landed Barret a low blow before wriggling out of his and Tifa’s grasps. Zack makes to give chase, hoping to catch the man before he reaches the door to the terrace, but is halted by a hand at his elbow. When he glances back, Cloud shakes his head and pointedly nods at the windows. Curious, Zack follows the gesture and notices a lone blond man waiting by the helicopter, his white suit stark against the night sky. He does not seem perturbed at seeing their escaped hostage rush out from the office and sprint toward him.

“Fuck!” With a soft groan, Barret stands upright, waving away Aerith’s efforts to help. “That’s Rufus. I forgot about that asshole.”

“Who’s he?” Tifa asks.

“Vice President Rufus Shinra. The president’s son. I heard he was assigned somewhere else for a long time.” Barret laughs darkly, shaking his head. “Seems an opportune time to come back, don’t ya think?” 

“I’ve heard he’s ruthless,” Aerith admits, a wary note in her tone. 

“I never met him,” Zack replies, watching the men outside exchange words. Now that the shock has relented, something within him has begun to thrum again, old hurt and new rage rising in him like the first waves of a revolution. _Shinra_ , he said to himself upon waking, _must pay_. While the president is indeed dead, decapitating a global superpower will not be enough to overthrow it, not when there are others waiting with bated breath to fill the void in leadership. It does not seem, however, unwise to weed out the candidates, especially ones renowned for cruelty. 

“Come on!” Barret shouts, breaking Zack out of his reverie, and jogs toward the terrace door. “Let’s get this fucker! We can bring down Shinra all in one night!” 

Frowning, Tifa follows at a more sedate pace. “We should…at least find out his intentions. Aerith?” She glances at Aerith, who bites her lip but slowly nods. Red XIII, sitting on his haunches beside her, mirrors the motion. Then, as one, they all turn toward Zack and Cloud, shifting to stare at the latter when Zack looks to him in question. 

Cloud, who once willfully lied to Zack to join a vengeful run on a Shinra reactor, does not nod. Cloud does not so much as blink. “You can do what you like,” he says instead, voice carefully even, “but Zack and I are leaving while we can. Rufus can go fuck himself.” 

Blocking out their friends’ ensuing protests, Zack meets Cloud’s eyes and, for a moment, considers doing as he proposes. It is tempting, this notion of cutting themselves off from Shinra once and for all―Zack has long yearned for it. Yet…to do that would be to cut off the rest of the world as well, for they would not be able to abide its suffering otherwise. How could they live with themselves if they let this opportunity pass by? There are already far too many souls calling for vengeance in the ruins of the Sector 7 slums―what is to say that more will not arise if they leave Rufus alive? 

Zack, better than anyone, understands Cloud’s desire to protect the one he loves, but this story is no longer just about the two of them. Their world, once more, has widened to encompass the rest of humanity―and who are they to turn their backs on it? 

“Cloud,” he says, gentling his tone so that it reaches only him, “this is bigger than us. We _gotta_ fight.” Then, when Cloud’s stubbornness holds, he adds, “Sector 7.”

At that, Cloud’s eyes fall shut, mouth pinching in dismay. “I know,” he murmurs before blindly reaching out. Zack entwines their fingers without hesitation, their hands meeting at a diagonal across the distance between them. “You, you don’t even have a sword, you dumbass. How’re you planning on fighting?” 

“Mostly with dumb luck,” Zack jokes, smiling when it elicits a huffed laugh. “And the fire materia Aerith gave me.” Cloud does not reply to that, but he does open his eyes, watching Zack with unmistakable fear. One day, Zack promises to himself, they will stop inspiring this emotion in one another.

 _It starts here_ , he vows.

“Okay,” Cloud says, nodding, “I’m with you.”

\---

Nestled beneath a sea of stars, the town of Kalm has long since begun to tuck itself into bed, only a handful of its windows still glowing despite the late hour. The brightest light that remains untouched hangs above the porch of the town’s inn, a lone beacon humming in the near distance. It reflects off the Buster Sword, limning its edges in burnished gold and transforming the weapon into something holy―something almost unrecognizable. 

Zack’s hand aches to release its hilt, but the sword refuses to part.

He sighs and lowers it, propping its broadside against his bent knee. Regardless of the nightmares it carries, it has been his companion for far too many years to abandon it now. Besides, he never would have survived those months in the wilderness without it, even if it is not best suited to the terrain. The Buster Sword is bulky, inelegant, and heavy with memory, but perhaps that is why Zack gets along with it so well: they are kindred spirits. And yet…he cannot help but feel that he has outgrown it. 

Shutting his eyes, Zack clenches his grip, lifts the sword, and deposits it at his side, letting it lie along the bench where he sits. Zack breathes. He opens his gaze to the heavens. 

Never would he profess to missing life on the run, but this―this expanse of unpolluted stars―he has missed dearly. It was his one consolation on sleepless nights, reveling in it as he whispered imagined constellations to an unresponsive Cloud. This, he thinks, could be one such night, his brain incapable of settling after an endless day of hiking, battle, and the occasional cursory rest. His friends, unused to such unceasing travel, are all sleeping it off in their rented rooms in the inn, their windows pitch dark. If he were less kind, he would envy their peace, but the road ahead is long, and they will need their strength. 

Despite everyone’s exhaustion, they had all gathered before bedtime and listened as Zack and Cloud spoke their piece. In fits and starts, they weaved together their memories of Shinra, Sephiroth, and Nibelheim, Tifa occasionally interrupting to offer her own perspective. The outcome was patchwork at best and tattered at worst, but one truth bloomed into undeniable clarity: neither Shinra nor Sephiroth could be allowed to be left to their devices. Zack is yet uncertain as to what the Promised Land might be, having only gleaned its connection to the Cetra―and, in turn, to Aerith, which is a concept he cannot begin to unravel―but it is no question that Shinra intends to exploit it for its own gain. For the good of Gaia, they must be stopped. 

All the worse, Rufus ran off before they could deal the finishing blow, the man sending waves of opponents in his wake and thus forcing them to retreat. The fallout from his death would have resulted in the same, perhaps, but at least the pall of failure would not have loomed over them as they escaped Midgar. In the confusion, Zack might have been able to say goodbye to Verre and Thomas, and maybe even Binh, if solely to avoid leaving yet another slew of friends wondering what became of him. Instead, they only had time to gather the essentials, supplies practically tumbling out of Zack’s hands as they fled. It was…not dissimilar to his life but two months past.

This time, Zack tells himself, it will be different. He _compels_ himself to believe it. No longer are they the prey―they are the pursuers. Shinra, too, only has eyes for its deserter of a general; to send armies after them when it must hold out against his might would be a waste of resources. And, even if Shinra dares ambush them, it will find not one, but six sources of resistance.

 _This time_ , Zack thinks as he catches the sound of a familiar gait, _I’m not alone_. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, lowering his gaze to greet the newcomer. “I thought you were gonna sleep.” 

“I _was_ , but it didn’t work,” Cloud grouses, stopping just a foot away from the bench as he fixes Zack with a sullen look. “It feels weird to sleep alone.”

“Guess we’re both spoiled now,” Zack replies quietly, too subdued to play along with Cloud’s affected displeasure. Instead, he scoots sideways, shifting the Buster Sword until it threatens to tip over the edge of the bench, and nods rightward at the vacated spot. 

It is a testament to how well they have learned one another when Cloud’s grumpiness peels back like a sheaf of papers, sincerity taking its place. To think that Zack ever found his expressions unreadable: his concern and fondness are as apparent as if they were engraved across his brows. Or, perhaps that is only ever true when Cloud is looking at him. Zack cannot, after all, compare to when he himself is absent.

“You’re stargazing?” Cloud asks before he sits down, pressing into Zack’s side. 

“Mm.” Zack smiles as their forearms entwine, Cloud’s hand sneaking into his. “We used to do a lot of it. Y’know, back then. You―” He knocks their shoulders together, distracting Cloud from his perusal of the sky. “―were never any good though.”

“Like you were any better,” Cloud quips back before promptly grimacing―having responded automatically, it seems.

Something, Zack suspects, must be weighing on his mind, and, taking into account the scope of the last thirty hours or so, it does not require much contemplation to identify. In fact, between Zack’s stint at Shinra HQ and Sephiroth’s apparent survival, he imagines that it must be more challenging to find an aspect that is _not_ keeping Cloud awake. Zack himself cannot gauge how to unravel the effects of the former. The lab and…its overseers brought out a side of him that he had assumed was long suppressed. And here he thought that he was finally beginning to heal… 

Regardless, whatever detail haunts Cloud, he does not yet voice it, ducking instead to wrap both his hands around Zack’s. “It’s cold out here,” he mutters. Cloud, infused with Mako and clothed in the black sweater Zack gifted him, can hardly call the pleasantly cool night “cold,” but the remark does justify why he proceeds to lift their hands to his mouth and blow, breath hot.

“It’s not so bad,” Zack replies fondly, his hand unfurling like a flower reaching for the sun’s warmth. Cloud’s clumsy subterfuge notwithstanding, he will never refuse affection because of its unconventional packaging. “It’s nothing I’m not used to.” 

Humming in clear dismissal, Cloud reaches over and tugs Zack’s other hand into the tangle of fingers. He carefully chafes the skin in between long exhales, paying no mind to the fact that Zack’s hands were never that cold to begin with. Cooing internally, Zack tips forward and nudges his forehead against Cloud’s, chuckling when the gesture only elicits a preoccupied grumble. 

At this point, Zack recognizes that Cloud will not be dissuaded, so he settles in to wait, appreciating how the few lights of Kalm caress Cloud’s features, accentuating his loveliness. They could just as easily be back in the church, the shadows cast by their lantern foretelling the witching hour. The darkness here, however, is unlike its twin lurking within Midgar’s slums. Brightened by a multitude of stars, it does not loom quite so oppressively. As such, while Zack wishes they could have done so under different circumstances, he cannot drum up a sole dram of regret for leaving Midgar behind. 

Even now, he can feel his breaths coming easier, his paranoia shedding a few ponderous layers. This town, too, is strangely helping. Zack is not so blithe as to miss the obvious signs of Shinra’s meddling, but the Mako-powered machinery is not so prevalent here, tucked away into the sides of buildings and perched on rooftops. The only unmissable contraption is the generator set up in the center of town, but, from where Zack sits, it could just as easily be an abstract sculptural piece: ugly, but bearable. 

The town itself is a lovely rendition of white brick, brown wood, and blue cobblestone, the resulting sight idyllic in nature. It is, ultimately, so unlike anything he has encountered that the selfsame unfamiliarity is a comfort. If he had to compare it to anything, Nibelheim would top the list, but even then, the colors and building blocks are all wrong, Nibelheim rustic where Kalm is a touch more urban. Regardless, Kalm is nothing like Midgar, and that is where the attraction lies. 

“I like it here,” Zack murmurs distractedly, gaze fixed on the porch light. Cloud’s hands, enfolded around his, pause in their ministrations. “It’s peaceful. Hence the name, huh?” he adds cheerily, glancing back at Cloud. 

Brows knitted, Cloud lowers their hands into his lap and proceeds to absorb their surroundings with visible intensity, seemingly not having given them a second thought when they first arrived in Kalm hours before. After several moments of silent observation, he nods, the gesture heavy with rumination. 

“It is nice,” he admits, tone soft with surprise, and then blurts out, “Zack, if you―” before cutting himself off, expression skewing in visible frustration. Zack, in turn, waits patiently, recognizing Cloud’s struggle to translate his emotions into viable speech. He himself, all these weeks, has largely failed to find the words to express his own pain, choosing instead to bury it deep within his core. He would never fault Cloud for braving a foray into said depths―if anyone could shine a light upon them, it would be him. 

With a huff, Cloud shifts to face Zack directly, his hesitation burned away in the face of his resolve. “What if,” he proposes, “we just stopped here? The two of us, I mean. All that bullshit with Shinra―the others could handle it. We don’t have to get involved.” 

_Gods_ , Zack thinks, _I love him so fucking much._

“Cloud, we’re already involved,” Zack replies, softening his tone to compensate for how the response refuses to be left unheard. The whisper of his dream of a little house and a little life, too, is unmistakable, but Zack quiets it with a touch of regret. Even when Shinra had stolen nearly everything from him, when it should have had enough, it soldiered on, destroying his life in measured increments. If he and Cloud were to settle down, why should he trust that it would not barge in and ruin that, too? As much as this life tempts him, it would be unwise at this juncture. 

No, Shinra must be stopped. Zack has already made his decision, first atop one tower and then again atop another. He has vowed far too much to quit midway. 

“We can’t back out now. Besides,” he hedges, side-eyeing Cloud, “maybe the others could handle Shinra, but could they handle Sephiroth?” 

For a moment, Cloud’s eyes darken with visceral contempt, only to immediately lighten, the roiling emotion all but gone. With a sigh, Zack sneaks a hand out of Cloud’s grasp and places it along his forearm. “Hey, don’t pretend like you don’t wanna go after him. I know you have a score to settle with him. Just like―” Zack squeezes Cloud’s wrist in tender rebuke, forestalling his objections. “―I have a score to settle with Shinra.” 

“ _Dammit_ ,” Cloud hisses, cinching his eyes shut. “That’s just not fair.” 

“I know,” Zack replies, kindly deciding not to make a play on his name, “but if you get to use the revenge card once, then so can I.” 

Cloud, unsurprisingly, does not dignify that with a response, but he does muster up a baleful glower, which he sends Zack’s way. 

“You can glare at me all you want, sunshine―it won’t change anything,” Zack quips, only to grin and slyly add, “I always thought it made you look cute.” Unfortunately, extended exposure to Zack’s antics seems to have had a desensitizing effect, for Cloud barely even blinks at the disarming remark. Zack pouts in defeat, but consoles himself with the fact that Cloud’s expression has at least softened a tad. 

He opens his mouth, a half formed argument ready on his tongue, when Cloud interrupts, his muted voice hearkening Zack into stillness. “My so-called ‘revenge’ didn’t end well last time, remember? We already learned this lesson.” 

Zack winces. Given that “last time” was but two nights ago, he does, in fact, remember. “It’s not that sort of revenge,” he protests and lifts a hand to caress Cloud’s cheek, hoping to smooth away the haunted echo in his eyes. “I promise this isn’t about sacrifice. It’s…kind of selfish, really.” 

“You say that,” Cloud grumbles, “but I don’t think you know what that word means.” 

Not to be derailed, Zack decides not to pursue the blatant untruth―he has, these last two months, been nothing but. Still: “I’ve _been_ selfish,” he amends, blocking out Cloud’s incredulous murmurs. “Thing is―” 

Despite himself, Zack stutters to a halt, the words caught on tenterhooks commanded by his timorous heart. He understands its dread―he has not uttered these words even to himself―but he suspects that he will not begin to heal until they are out in the open. Besides, perhaps he cannot, after all, depend on Cloud to drag the words out for him. Zack’s enduring silence does not justify having another do all the legwork―this is something he must instigate himself.

Anyway, Cloud, bearing just as many fractures, will not condemn him for his own, so what is there to agonize over, truly?

“Thing is,” he restarts, dropping his hand to once more grip Cloud’s, “I’ve been selfish ‘cause I’ve been avoiding a lot of things. Just…not dealing with them. Y’know, not just Shinra, but…memories and feelings, too. I thought maybe they’d work themselves out if I just ignored them, but―” Zack shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “―it doesn’t work that way. They’ve just weighed me down. Truth is, Cloud…ever since Nibelheim, I’ve been afraid every fucking day.”

Inexplicably, Zack laughs, hysterical with relief at having admitted it, only to force down the reaction when it leaves Cloud looking devastated. 

“Sorry,” Zack murmurs nonsensically, running a thumb along Cloud’s knuckles. “But I, I think confronting Shinra and…what they did to us is the only way I can start controlling this fear. And it’s not just for us, either. There’s―” He falters, having to swallow back the grief before continuing. “A-Angeal would still be alive if not for them. _Hell_ , even Sephiroth is the way he is because of Shinra. Because of― Because of Hojo. What’s to say they’re not gonna keep doing this to people? Nibelheim, Sector 7… It’s all on them.” 

“I know. I fucking _know_ ,” Cloud whispers, squeezing Zack’s hand to an almost painful degree. “I mean, _fuck_ , I _don’t_ know. I barely remember what they did to me, but you―” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, rage and despair warring upon his face. Zack’s heart shudders in turn, knowing too well the pain that arises from being unable to help the one you love, all resulting in a frantic energy that has nowhere to burn. 

“ _Cloud_ ,” Zack gentles, crowding close to tip their foreheads together. “I’m okay.” 

Jerking away, Cloud snarls, “Sure, you’re _okay_. You’ve only been afraid this _whole time_.”

“Well, ‘every day,’ I said.” Murmuring encouragement, Zack extricates his hands from Cloud’s death grip and instead slips them around the blond’s waist. “The _whole time_ , I was busy being in love with you. You’re very distracting, you know.” 

“Fuck off,” Cloud mutters, but he does not, Zack notes with satisfaction, wriggle away. In fact, judging by how he latches onto Zack’s shoulders, Cloud does not plan to release him anytime soon―not that he would ever complain. “ _Distracting_. Zack, do you know how _handsy_ you are?” he asks, sounding exhausted despite―or perhaps because of―his previous outburst. 

Inadvertently proving the point, Zack rubs Cloud’s lower back, intent on soothing out his remaining unrest. “I’d say sorry, but I’d be lying, sunshine.” 

Cloud grumbles out a “ _drove me fucking crazy_ ,” while Zack gamely pretends not to notice how the blond absolutely melts into his touch, ducking his head into the slope of Zack’s neck and huffing out a breath. In turn, the weight of Cloud’s welcome warmth slows Zack’s own racing heartbeat, and the two find themselves relaxing for the first time in over a day. In between leaving Midgar and traveling to Kalm, they have had little to no opportunities to simply be together, Zack too antsy at being out in the open and Cloud too self-conscious amid a larger audience. There will be fewer opportunities still if they are to continue on this journey, but perhaps, with growing familiarity, their anxieties will diminish. In the interim, however, he will cherish every single second they have alone together. 

“Zack?” Cloud murmurs, pressing the name into his skin.

“Mm?”

“Do you think you’ll ever talk to me?” Cloud asks, apropos of nothing. Zack is tempted to joke in reply, but the question is too somber to dismiss, so he waits until Cloud finally adds, “About what happened to you at Nibelheim. And everything after.” 

Cloud, Zack realizes with sudden recollection, once offered to listen to him if he ever needed to _talk_. Not even a month into their return, and Cloud had already perceived the fissures forming on his carefully constructed facade. Or, perhaps Zack had failed to hide them from the very beginning, his defenses poor against Cloud’s inherent ability to render him utterly undone. Still, therein lies an uncanny comfort: for all that Zack repressed his emotions, Cloud was never too far away, lending his support in quiet solidarity. Zack would have only had need to turn and _see it_ , and the truth would have burst from the cracks. 

Tonight, however, is not for that selfsame truth―not when he still aches with badly stitched wounds. So, instead, Zack lowers his nose into Cloud’s hair, breathes, and promises, “I will. I’m not ready yet, but…one day soon.” 

After a still moment, Cloud nods. “Okay,” he whispers, the hushed tone masking any disappointment he might be feeling. Just in case, Zack tightens his embrace in apology, but when Cloud leans away to meet his gaze, his expression is smooth and resolute. “One day, then. But, in the meantime…if you think stopping Shinra will bring you peace, then we’ll go.” 

Zack smiles, amused despite himself. He will never find peace in the ashes of Shinra’s destruction; the least he can hope for is closure of a kind, to finally cauterize the fraying ends of his pain. No, peace will be waiting in the moments in between, in the circle of Cloud’s arms when the rest of the world turns them a blind eye. If fate is once more kind, it will grant them this much. 

Regardless, only a fool could fail to notice what it costs Cloud to concede, so, determined to show his gratitude, Zack dips in to press a kiss to his cheek, followed by a thank you, and proceeds to travel to the cut of Cloud’s jaw, mouthing at the skin. 

“Don’t get me wrong, sunshine: I was looking forward to our original plans,” he murmurs, Cloud humming in agreement. “Not like I enjoyed roughing it out here. First time sucked.” The last he punctuates with a hint of more pressure from his mouth, wondering if it will suffice to leave a mark. 

“It won’t be as bad,” Cloud promises distractedly, his fingers sneaking into Zack’s hair. “I’ll, ah, even buy you a year’s supply of toothpaste before we go.” 

Zack cannot help it: he bursts into laughter, quickly withdrawing so as not to assault Cloud’s longsuffering ear drums. Cloud, at least, does not seem to begrudge the interruption, his lips turning up at the corners. Drowning in the need for normalcy after the days he has had, Zack dons a playfully stern look and bids, “Don’t you dare dip into our house fund. I’ve got plans for that.” 

Cloud huffs at that, smile dimming. “We’ll probably have to anyway. We only have one sword.” 

Zack’s burgeoning grin falls in turn, and he becomes hyperaware of the Buster Sword’s hilt butting into his thigh, still threatening to unbalance should Zack make any sudden movements. They do, in fact, only have one sword between the two of them. A little ways into their retreat from Midgar, Cloud had finally returned it to him, citing that it is rightfully Zack’s, and proceeded to rely on borrowed materia for the rest of the trip. Even now, the image of Cloud swordless sits ill with him. It is not merely strange―it is… _wrong_. 

Zack might have outgrown the Buster Sword, but…Cloud has blossomed into it _beautifully_. 

As soon as the realization hits him, the weight almost literally lifts from his back. To think that he has spent the evening battling with himself as to the sword’s fate, only to miss that the answer has been awaiting him with notable patience. Evidently, Zack chides himself, he should be spending more time with Cloud―his thoughts are always the clearer for it. 

“So, about that…” Twisting in place, Zack reaches back with one hand, grabs the sword, and tugs it forward, offering it hilt first. Fingers still caught in Zack’s hair, Cloud glances down at it with curiosity before focusing back on him as though to say, _Yes, this is a sword_. 

Zack chuckles, nerves tickling at his confidence, and bobs it pointedly in his direction. “Cloud, I want you to have it. And―” He unclenches his index finger from the hilt, raising it in admonishment. “―before you start, I promise this isn’t a sacrifice either. I sincerely want to do this.”

Reluctance writ upon his face, Cloud slowly draws a hand from Zack’s hair, grasps the sword, and holds it aloft, staring upon it blankly. With a slight shake of his head, he lowers the blade’s tip to the ground before sending him a bewildered look. Stalling, Zack avoids his gaze as he slips his free hand back around Cloud’s waist and plays with the fabric he finds there, pinching it between his fingers before smoothing it out. 

_Angeal_ , he tells himself, _would understand_. 

“I don’t know if I ever told you,” Zack murmurs, averting his eyes to the slope of Cloud’s collarbone, “but Angeal gave me this sword before he…before he passed. For him, it was a symbol of his dreams and honor. So, for a while, it was one for me, too.” For all that the words prod at old wounds, they tumble from his lips, stuttering only at the novelty of being freed. Emboldened, Zack meets Cloud’s gaze, finding it attentive and fathomless. “It fit me well, to be honest. I mean, even when I was a kid, I left home because I wanted to be a hero. That was my dream.” 

“It suits you,” Cloud comments, voice raspy with affection. 

“It did,” Zack agrees, nodding, and then smiles when Cloud visibly registers his word choice. “But it doesn’t anymore. I don’t care about being a hero. My dreams have changed.” Then, to banish all doubt, Zack lifts a hand to Cloud’s cheek and runs his thumb across the lantern-lit skin. “I want different things.” 

Zack startles at the clang of the Buster Sword dropping to the ground, only to giggle in delight when Cloud proceeds to crowd in close, hands skating between Zack’s neck and shoulders as though incapable of deciding where to land.

“ _Everything_ ,” Cloud vows, breaths coming fast. “You can have everything you want.”

“Everything, huh?” 

Not to be outdone, Zack clamps down on his lopsided embrace like a vise, intending to drag Cloud onto his lap. Neither is surprised, however, when this results in his back hitting the seat of the bench, Cloud joining him not a second later as he plops onto his chest with a huff. Zack, taking it in stride, settles his hands on Cloud’s lower back and raises both feet so that he can lie lengthwise on the bench. Cloud follows his lead, adjusting to slot their legs together and to prop his forearms beside Zack’s head. His expression, Zack thinks as he stifles another laugh, resembles that of a cat attesting that he did, in fact, intend to fall over. 

For the second time this night, Zack’s love for this stubborn, aloof, _lovely_ person threatens to utterly overwhelm him. There is yet so much that he wishes to do and experience alongside him―he has long stopped trying to count, for the list will never run out of entries. Still, there _is_ one thing that he wants without delay: an idea which sprouted inexplicably but has since grown, flourishing against the walls of his dreams. And perhaps Cloud―who once complained about having to wait to leave Midgar, whose stoic demeanor broke at nearly having lost Zack―would grant him this.

“Y’know, I _do_ want something, sunshine,” Zack reveals and then instinctively tightens his hold on Cloud, whose expression suggests that he is prepared to sprint away to acquire said something, the thought of which causes Zack to flush. His gut clenches thereafter, his anxiety stirring at the hint of embarrassment despite the fact that there is nothing to fear. Here, hidden from the world within Cloud’s care, Zack is perfectly safe. 

“Remember when I had to interview at the Honey Bee?” he asks, waiting until Cloud nods before continuing. “So, uh, something that we didn’t think to plan beforehand: Verre asked for my last name. And I, uh, panicked. And gave her yours.” 

Cloud blinks, lips parting. 

“And it felt so damn right,” Zack finishes with a whisper, smiling up at Cloud’s barefaced wonder. He watches as the realization sparks in his eyes, as they soften the longer he returns Zack’s besotted stare. By the time Cloud recovers, the shock is all but gone, replaced by a tenderness that Zack yearns to forever harbor in his heart, stowing it there for only him to cherish. 

Cloud shifts a touch closer, his mouth hovering above his, and murmurs, “Strife doesn’t fit you, Zack.”

“No?” 

Smiling, Cloud shakes his head.

Zack hums pointedly, siphoning courage from how Cloud watches him, amused but undeniably expectant. With his sunshine hair and selfsame smiles, Cloud could wear Zack’s name like a second skin. The concept, on its own, is not unwelcome―quite the opposite, in fact―but Zack, too, desires to carry around a tangible piece of his love wherever he goes. In this, he will not be swayed. 

“Well, what if…we met in the middle?” Zack offers, tilting his head in anticipation.

And Cloud―because he would never speak one word where none would suffice―closes the distance between them and does just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I would like to apologize for making Zack suffer (again), especially since it was partially done to avoid writing the infiltration of Shinra HQ. I’m a terrible person. (Also, this fic wins the award for “most scenes started with the protagonist waking up.”)  
> \- That awkward moment when your boyfriend knows the thing you were trying to remember but you never realized because you never talk about your debilitating trauma.  
> \- Zack having to deal with trauma, a talking lion-like creature, more trauma, Jenova, the president’s murder, Sephiroth, the Promised Land, and Rufus all in one scene is like the FF7 equivalent of “now we don’t have time to unpack ALL of that.”  
> \- I wasn’t able to fit this detail into the last scene in a way that felt natural, but Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge decide to stay in Midgar to keep an eye on Shinra and fight against their bullshit propaganda. Barret stays in contact with them throughout their journey via phone.  
> \- I agree with Cloud that Zack absolutely does not understand what “selfish” means. His argument that he’s selfish is written unconvincingly on purpose. Zack is healing, but he still has a ways to go.  
> \- So, why did I decide to have Zack still give away his sword? When Zack is younger, his dream is to become a hero, and even though he is genuinely sincere, there is an aspect of glory in this. However, the ending of CC―and Zack’s sacrifice―shifts what it means to be a hero for Zack. A hero does not strive for glory or adulation; a hero acts out of love. (Sidenote: this is why putting Zack in Hercules’ world in Kingdom Hearts is a stroke of genius.) But, if Zack doesn’t die, then this shift from glory to love can be taken to its natural conclusion: Zack’s dreams, already changing, can grow from wanting to be a hero to wanting to protect those he loves―to wanting to BE with the one he loves. In other words, the dreams held within the sword no longer apply to him (even if, in my opinion, his new dreams align far more closely to Angeal’s than Zack realizes). Regardless, the sword, with its ties to SOLDIER and thus Shinra, also symbolizes the past, and although Zack now understands that he needs to work through his trauma in order to heal, he also knows that it is healthier not to dwell in it. Letting go of the sword is a way of letting go of that, too.  
> \- Me, a grammar nerd: Deliberates as to whether Strife-Fair or Fair-Strife sounds better, deciding on the latter because “Fair” is the only one that works as an adverb.  
> \- And yeah, these two idiots do end up sleeping on a bench all night.


	9. Epilogue

Amid the sunlit ruins of Sector 5, the church stands alone, presiding over Meteorfall’s aftermath like a solemn curator. If Zack were deeply religious, he would attribute its survival to divine intervention, but he knows that Gaia harbors a far older power than that of the sovereign gods―if not for its aid, there would have been nothing left of the church, let alone Midgar, let alone the _world_. But, perhaps the planet is divine in its own right―it and the Lifestream that rejuvenates its lands. 

As though in agreement, the door yields to Zack’s hand and swings open with nary a creak, only to break the illusion of inviolability as it reveals the true scope of the damage within. Despite the church’s nearly untouched facade, its interior did not weather the end of the world as stoically. In addition to the wreckage of collapsed columns and splintered pews, a massive section of the far left wall is outright missing, while the roof has caved in on itself in several places, the sky clearly visible beyond. 

Zack stares at it in wonder as he wanders down the aisle, deftly dodging rubble. Years ago, lying in his makeshift bed, he had cursed the Plate above, longing for the stars. It seems fitting, after all they suffered, that it would take a cataclysm for that wish to be granted, but he cannot find it in himself to grant it more than a moment’s observation. For, even if he will never regret the time spent in this church―will, in fact, treasure it for the love it cultivated―Zack has no need to linger here. This nave was once home, but that concept has long since evolved into something far less rooted to the ground, unlike the lilies adorning the altar. 

Zack crouches before said flowers, noting how they have imbibed a trace of wildness in his absence, their stalks and petals less uniform than they had once been. Their numbers, too, have tripled, seemingly intent on reclaiming these old stones. Perhaps, one day, they will fill all of Midgar, just as Aerith once dreamed. 

“Look at you,” Zack murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief. “There are so many of you.” 

“Well, they _do_ grow on love.” 

Zack looks in the direction of the voice and grins when Aerith herself appears in the doorway of the washroom, Tifa following at her heels. “Hey!” He springs up, bounds toward the women, and draws them both into a suffocating embrace. “I was wondering if I’d see you here!” 

“Hey, yourself!” Aerith exclaims through a slew of giggles, her breath short. “It’s been too long. I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” Zack replies, releasing them, and smiles sheepishly when Aerith splays a hand against her chest and inhales dramatically. “Sorry. Got excited.” 

“Don’t worry. We’re used to it,” Tifa assures, smiling―he guesses―at both her wife’s antics and his own. “But it’s good to see you. I didn’t expect you to come here though!” Brows raised, she gestures around the nave. “Did you get nostalgic?” 

Zack barely bites back a hysterical laugh. Nostalgia, after all, is not a word that has had need to reenter his lexicon, not when anything he could possibly yearn for is within reach. “ _No_ , nothing like that. But―” He raises his arm, presenting the empty canteen in his hand with a flourish. “―Denzel _did_ get travel sick. I was gonna get him water.” 

“Oh! I can take care of that,” Tifa offers and proceeds to pinch the canteen, ignoring his perfunctory protests as she disappears into the washroom. Her method of granting them a moment of privacy is unsubtle at best, but, as it benefits him, he decides not to call her out on it. Instead, he gathers Aerith into a gentler hug, heedful of his strength, while she squeezes him in turn.

All in all, it has only been three weeks―less than that, really―since they stopped by Aerith and Tifa’s home before embarking on their trip, but it is a long time to spend with an ocean separating them. At least the distance between Edge―Midgar’s successor―and Kalm amounts to less than a day of nonstop travel, resulting in frequent enough visits, but Zack still occasionally wishes that they did not live so far apart. Thankfully, Aerith’s penchant for blowing up their phones with texts―much to Cloud’s dismay, especially after Denzel insisted on changing his SMS ringtone to chocobo squawks―does much to alleviate the ache.

“It really has been too long,” Aerith repeats, seemingly in as maudlin a mood as him, before pulling away from his arms and playfully slapping his shoulder. “You better not have been trying to sneak past without visiting us!” 

“I promise your place was our next destination,” Zack assures, smiling when Aerith’s affected offense softens once more into wistfulness. 

“ _Good_. Do you want to stay over for a few days, then? Or―” She clasps her hands together in entreaty, holding them before her chest. “―maybe finally give in and move here?” Aerith, he knows, is already well aware of his incoming response, for they have trodden the path of this conversation at least twice before: once shortly after Meteorfall and once at her wedding. Taking their prolonged separation into account, it is no wonder that it has resurfaced. “I know it doesn’t look like much,” she continues, tilting her head at the sorry sight beyond the missing wall, “but it is getting better. Even the soil is healing.” 

Zack raises a brow and glances at the tangle of thriving lilies. “Yeah, thanks to _your_ efforts.” 

“Oh, pshaw. Everyone has been helping,” Aerith protests, but her cheeks, Zack notes smugly, tinge pink. “Still, we could always use more help?” 

With a fond sigh, Zack shakes his head at the hopeful gleam in her eyes. If Aerith, bedecked in white and radiating marital bliss, could not convince him to return to Midgar in lieu of a wedding present, then she has zero chances of succeeding with such a transparent argument. 

“Aerith―”

“Oh, I _know_!” she exclaims, flapping her hand in a dismissive manner. “But you can’t blame me for trying.”

“I can’t,” Zack agrees, nodding, “but we prefer Kalm. Edge is…too much like Midgar.” _And far too close to it_ , he adds to himself. Cleansed of perpetual darkness, the city will never again infiltrate his senses as it once did, but it has played host to one too many of Zack’s nightmares to forgive it so easily. Why, after all, rebuild a life on a scene of his trauma when the lands of Kalm are verdant and kind to those seeking peace? 

A part of Zack still mutters that it is selfish, but another part, speaking with Cloud’s curt tones, argues that it is well deserved. 

“Anyway,” Zack quips, breaking free of dusty ruminations, “Cloud and I have cleaned up enough of Shinra’s messes, don’t you think?” 

Smiling, Aerith hums, murmurs a playful “fair,” and winks. Then, not a moment later, she pouts. “That joke doesn’t really work as well anymore, does it?” 

Before Zack can so much as shake his head, Tifa wanders back into the nave, the canteen undoubtedly having been filled at least five times based on how long she dallied. “Here you go,” she says, pressing said canteen into Zack’s waiting hands. “It’s a miracle that water’s still flowing, but I won’t tell Reeve if you won’t.” 

Zack scoffs and beckons them to follow as he heads toward the open exit. “ _Please_. I know better than to sabotage your source of water. I’d be hauling buckets before I knew it.” 

“And rightly so!” Aerith exclaims, rushing to match his stride. Zack glances sideward to gauge her expression, wondering if the fresh refusal has wounded her, but she merely knocks her shoulder into his and smiles. Relieved, Zack returns the gesture, Tifa chuckling behind them as Aerith stumbles. 

Still, Zack makes a mental note to warn Cloud of a potential onslaught of melodramatic texts when they finally proceed to Kalm. Despite his aversion to replying to most texts, Cloud, the giant sap, almost never switches his phone to silent, not that anyone believes Zack when he mentions it. In fact, far too many brand Cloud as distant and hard-hearted, but perhaps, Zack thinks as he steps outside, they would change their tune if they could witness this. 

Not far from where Zack parked their sidecar-paired motorcycle, Cloud crouches beside their adopted son, whispering and gently rubbing a hand across Denzel’s shoulders as the boy attempts to unite his forehead with the ground. With all his limbs tucked close, Denzel looks tiny, but it is incomparable to the day they found him scavenging in Sector 5 during the initial salvaging efforts post-Meteorfall. The boy had not even been ten yet, but, malnourished and sickly, he barely looked even three-quarters of his actual age. At a loss, they spirited him to Aerith and Tifa’s new place in Edge, Cloud commandeering the kitchen upon arrival, having had personal experience with which foods settled best on a starved stomach, while the others tried to coax a history out of the boy. 

In the end, Denzel only opened up after eating his fill, wary in the way of one expecting to be kicked out but knowing that it would have been worth the free meal. Haltingly, he spoke of being fostered after his parents perished in the collapse of Sector 7, only to lose both his guardian and home in the aftershocks of Meteorfall, forcing him to begin scavenging to survive. The more Zack listened, the more his heart fractured.

Needless to say, everyone insisted that Denzel should lodge with them at least until they found someone able to care for him. Marlene herself offered to share her room, having been staying with the women while Barret traveled abroad. That sorted, Zack excused himself to the guest room and, in perfect silence, proceeded to stem an encroaching breakdown. Cloud, because he knows him best, joined him not a minute later, and the following conversation was one mired in guilt, the result of which was the impulsive decision to foster Denzel themselves. Even so, as their eyes met, they both understood that neither was making it lightly―once taken into their care, Denzel would never leave it. They were yet young, but they were younger still when they saved the planet from extinction. In comparison, parenthood proved to be but a notch less difficult. 

_Worth it though_ , Zack thinks fondly as he hops down the steps toward his family. “Hey, look who I found!” 

Without removing his hand from Denzel’s shoulders, Cloud cranes his head in their direction, brows rising in mild surprise. “Oh, hey.” Cloud jerks as though to greet the newcomers with a hug, but apparently thinks better of it, remaining with Denzel instead. “We were just headed your way.” 

As Aerith and Tifa voice their hellos, Zack crouches on Denzel’s other side and glances at the ground for any signs of bile, finding none. Concluding that the nausea must be abating given how long he loitered in the church, Zack holds out the canteen with one hand and musses Denzel’s brown locks with the other. 

“Hey, kiddo.” He retracts his hand when Denzel’s head rises, the boy’s blue eyes finding his blearily. “Think you can stomach some water?” Zack asks, shaking the canteen, to which Denzel frowns, visibly assessing his situation, before nodding and accepting the proffered water. As Denzel drinks, Zack places his hand atop Cloud’s on the boy’s back, resuming the soothing motion. “Rotten luck, huh? Looks like you take after your dad after all.” 

Cloud, the dad in question, placidly replies, “Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.” 

“Oh, speaking of,” Aerith pipes up from behind them, her tone devious, “how did Gongaga go?”

For a moment, Cloud’s hand beneath his pauses. “Good,” he responds before hesitantly adding, “I think.” 

“It was good,” Zack confirms with a squeeze, throwing Cloud a fond look. “Nothing like the first time.” 

The first time being, of course, when Zack reunited with his parents after nearly a decade of radio silence. Growing up, he and his parents had never been especially close, having never quite seen eye to eye, but they had always been patient with and supportive of him. As such, he can hardly blame them for the chaos he ended up walking into, his mother sobbing and his father pretending like he was not, all while Cloud hovered in the middle like an eye in the storm, awkwardly consoling everyone in turn. 

To this day, Zack suspects that it was Cloud’s outward calm that instantly won his parents over. They had, after all, worried over him ever being able to find someone that could keep up with him―let alone put up with―so Zack introducing Cloud as the love of his life must have come with no shortage of relief. And, well, if Cloud’s gender surprised them, then they were at least kind enough to hide it. 

“True, it went better than that,” Cloud agrees, frowning up at their friends, “but at least the first time didn’t include three weeks without privacy. Their place is tiny.” 

“ _Almost_ three weeks,” Zack corrects, ignoring Cloud’s stink eye and Denzel’s quiet snort. “The sacrifice was worth it though. Now Mom will finally stop demanding grandkids.” 

“ _Kids_ ,” Cloud repeats, deadpan. “Plural.” 

Zack pouts in faux commiseration and entwines their fingers, prompting Denzel to dart an amused glance over his shoulder. “Sorry, sunshine. I _did_ try to convince them that the chocobos count as children.” 

“Probably should’ve taken them instead of the bike, then.” Seemingly taking pity on Denzel, Cloud pointedly lifts their joined hands and pulls away, but not before twisting his wrist to graze their palms together. “We could’ve introduced everyone at once _and_ avoided nausea.” 

“Denzel’s nausea, anyway,” Zack remarks, unbothered when Cloud ignores him. To his credit, Cloud _did_ largely succeed in fighting back the air sickness as they crossed the ocean, even if he spent almost half of the time above deck in the company of numbing winds. At least Denzel managed well enough in the sky, even if he did end up queasy on the one form of mechanical transport that does _not_ affect Cloud. 

“No, it’s fine―I’m okay,” Denzel rasps out before slowly rising to his feet and shifting toward everyone, Zack and Cloud both spotting him as they do the same. “The birds don’t like the airship that much. Their rooms are too small.” 

Tifa hums lowly, tilting her head as her eyes narrow. “I agree, but Cid might not appreciate chocobos running around in his ship. He already complains about being used like a taxi service.” 

“He should’ve thought about that before getting an airship,” Cloud quips before literally turning his back on the conversation to focus on Denzel. “Think you’re ready to keep going?” 

“Yeah, I―” Denzel fiddles with the canteen still in his grasp, darting a hooded look back at the sidecar. “―should be fine.” 

In perfect synchronization, Zack and Cloud lock gazes, immediately calling out the lie―a skill which they, perhaps ironically, polished by practicing on each other. The ability to silently converse, too, is one born of years of tandem combat, as well as an unfortunate lack of privacy resulting from traveling with a sizable group. To this day, no one can parse Cloud’s minute expressions as well as Zack, nor can anyone read between the lines of Zack’s grins as well as Cloud. Regardless, Denzel has already bemoaned his situation, claiming that he can never get away with anything even as his parents pretend not to notice that the boy’s complaint does not sound genuine. 

“Hey, don’t force it,” Zack urges, reaching out to tousle Denzel’s hair gently. “We can stick around here as long as you need.” As he expected, Denzel’s shoulders visibly relax at the assurance, while Cloud huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Oh!” Aerith exclaims, prompting everyone to look her way, and claps her hands once. “Why don’t Tifa and I take him home? The walk might do him good.” 

Zack grins, noting how Denzel perks up out of the corner of his eye. “Great idea! What d’you say, Denzel? Wanna go with your aunts?” Not waiting for confirmation, Zack glances at Cloud and gestures toward their friends. “I can drive the bike if you want some time to catch up.” 

As Zack should have foreseen, Cloud is saved from having to answer when Aerith interrupts by ducking in to snatch Denzel’s hand and drawing him toward her. “Nope! I only want to hear unfiltered gossip! Cloud can regale us with his three-word responses later,” Aerith sing-songs and proceeds to disregard Cloud’s muttered “ _five_ -word responses” as she swaggers away, a smiling Denzel skipping to catch up with her.

Chuckling, Tifa shakes her head in Aerith’s wake, eyes gleaming with fondness, before she throws them a knowing smile. “Guess we’ll see you there, then?” 

“Guess so,” Zack replies with an unconcerned shrug. Seemingly catching himself, Denzel swivels in Aerith’s grip and hurriedly waves, hand flailing like a bird’s wing as though to make up for the fact that he forgot to say his goodbyes. Zack and Cloud mirror the gesture far more sedately, the latter tacking on a shooing motion that causes the boy to grin. “Keep him safe,” Zack tells Tifa, smiling to assure that he means no offense. 

Tifa, thankfully, takes the request in stride―no doubt accustomed to working alongside his and Cloud’s steep protective streaks―and nods. “With our lives,” she vows and then jogs off toward the ambling pair, slipping her hand in Denzel’s upon reaching them. 

With Aerith on one side of their young charge and Tifa on the other, the women form a fearsome honor guard. Although their lack of visible weapons belies their strength, Zack knows that there is no one better who can ensure Denzel’s safety in the absence of his parents, for Aerith, in the last lap of their journey, was the most powerful of them all, Tifa trailing not far behind. And that, of course, says nothing of their courage, which they both have in spades. Strength may fade with time, but, as he has witnessed, courage will persist even in the face of hopelessness. 

Zack, too, in spite of the darkness which sought to drown him, eventually found his courage. With every dodged attack and every victorious smile, he collected it bit by bit and portioned it out in measured amounts. Some he kept for himself, but the rest he gifted to the world and the innocents he strove to save, while Cloud offset the deficit with his own. In the end, it proved to be enough. They were _all_ enough.

And yet, Zack thinks as he wanders back to the motorcycle, once the evil was vanquished, it was not long before he lost his taste for warfare altogether. All it took was the purchase of a rundown property on the outskirts of Kalm, and everything Zack has desired for since have been modest and domestic matters belonging to this little life he has forged with Cloud. That is not to say, of course, that they cut themselves off from the world as they had once proposed. Disregarding the fact that Aerith would never allow it, after observing the wounds Shinra had inflicted on the planet, the notion of doing so swiftly lost its appeal, even in the wake of the organization’s destruction. 

Cloud’s response, after the initial refugee relocation efforts, had been to establish a worldwide delivery service: a welcome help for a society struggling to rebuild after having been reliant on Mako energy. At first, the demand had been so high that Cloud and Zack had been forced to take on alternating shifts, occasionally both finding themselves out on the field. After months of tireless work, it finally calmed into a manageable career, the jobs paying well while not endlessly keeping them apart. Even so, Zack never looks forward to their separations, but at least Cloud’s palpable reluctance whenever they must part is always a welcome consolation―one eclipsed only by their reunions. 

All in all, it is a simple life, but it is _theirs_. And Shinra can no longer take it away. 

Still shaking off the dregs of his reverie, Zack momentarily crouches and grabs the helmet resting sideways beside the sidecar, the item having been dropped there when Denzel scrambled to reach solid ground. He leans over to cache it beneath the dashboard, only to glance up in surprise when Cloud appears beside the motorcycle and hops into the driver’s seat. 

Despite being fully aware that Cloud, once decided, will refuse to yield, Zack still offers, “I can drive,” and then grins cheekily when it inspires a stern glare. 

“You drove us here, Zack. Take a break,” Cloud orders, clearly brooking no argument as he begins to adjust the mirrors on the handlebars to his height.

Without protest, Zack chirps out a “yes, sir!” and bypasses the sidecar to claim the passenger seat, not even considering climbing into the former. After all, he is not so artless as to miss an opportunity to sneak in one or two playful touches. Even years into their relationship, Cloud remains averse to blatant affections in public, sticking to handholding and embraces, while Zack cannot help but toe the line of Cloud’s sensibilities on a daily basis, whether purposely or otherwise. Still, when they are alone, Zack could not profess to know which of them is more expressive in their love, and―given that the church and piles of rubble are their sole witnesses―they are now as alone as they could ever be out here. After their necessary dry spell, Zack will accept even table scraps.

So, rather than gripping the jut of the seat or even Cloud’s hips, Zack tucks his hands together against Cloud’s abdomen, curling his fingertips into the fabric. Although he is sorely tempted, he does not close the distance between them any further, but it cannot be said that he does not hover in wait―and Cloud does not disappoint. Sensing the change in atmosphere, he lowers his hand from the ignition, sits upright, and casts a side-eye Zack’s way.

“Y’know, we should probably give ‘em a head start,” Cloud suggests, pressing a hand against Zack’s questing fingers. “Since they’re walking.” 

“It would only be polite,” Zack agrees, a nascent smile ruining his grave tone. “Either we wait here or wait there.” 

“Mm, here it is, then.” 

With a fathomless sigh, Cloud closes his eyes and drifts back into Zack’s torso, his muscles relaxing until all that is left of him is unwound and boneless. Despite bulking up on their journey―as well as growing an inch or two―Cloud still slots ever so perfectly against him, melding to his shape. His head has conveniently drifted into the bend of Zack’s shoulder, so Zack wastes no time in ducking down to press his lips against the edge of his jaw. He smiles at the resulting inhale, reveling in how quickly Cloud becomes undone in his care, their years of familiarity only sweetening the response. Still, he has nothing on Cloud, whose private smiles bear the power of emptying Zack’s mind of all thoughts save for one: _sunshine_. 

Cloud hums in question, angling his face toward his ministrations, and Zack realizes that he might have uttered said name out loud. Loath to bare his rambling sentimentality without the prospect of a bed nearby, Zack shifts his mouth to Cloud’s ear and instead whispers, “I agree with you: three weeks is a long time.”

“Almost three weeks,” Cloud corrects, for which Zack gently nips him in rebuke, eliciting a wily smirk. And yet, as Cloud swivels to perch sideways in his seat, the curve of his lips softens, blooming into that same mind-emptying smile. “It’ll be good to be home.” 

When Zack’s heart is unfettered, so, too, are his emotions given free rein, and thus, he cannot subdue the chuckle that escapes him. Cloud, on the other hand, does not even attempt to school his arched brow, but he does nestle closer, eyes betraying his fondness―and Zack overflows with age-old wonder at the fact that this is his life. The doting touches, the sunshine smiles, a family: Cloud offers these to him without hesitation. In light of this, how could he not laugh in disbelief? After all, it is this love, not the trappings of wood and stone, that embodies a home. 

“It’s nothing, really. It’s just―” With a sunshine smile of his own, Zack lifts a hand to Cloud’s face, grazing his thumb against the corner of his lips. “I’m already home.” 

“ _Zack_.”

His name, leaving Cloud’s lips, does not reach him as a word so much as a wisp of breath. Try as it might, Zack’s amateur poet’s heart could never hope to convey the scope of the whisper’s devotion through any tendered word or phrase. And yet, for all the poems in the world, it will never compare to how Cloud _looks_ at him.

And then, when Zack thinks that Cloud could not possibly grant him more of his love, Cloud murmurs, “Welcome home,” and promptly proves him wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll admit that I didn’t plan an epilogue when I wrote my initial outline for this fic, but I soon realized that I didn’t want to leave Zack in the frame of mind he’s in after leaving Midgar. He is doing much better―that much is true―but it became clear that he still has so much healing to do even after everything that happened (and their journey has only just begun). Progression vs. time isn’t a direct relationship, after all. So, even if I could have easily ended it there, I decided to show Zack in a much healthier place, having achieved his “little dream and little life.” Moreover, I wanted to confirm that Aerith does survive the journey (you didn’t think I’d kill her off after all that work, did you?), and there was also the matter of Denzel, whom I had to include. I just can’t imagine Zack and Cloud finding an orphaned Denzel in the ruins of Midgar and NOT adopting him. We already know that Cloud is a good dad, and Zack would be a good one, too.
> 
> As to everything in between… Naturally, I never set out to rewrite the entire game, but if the story were to continue, it would follow it fairly closely, save for a few major distinctions. In this version, Cloud is far more in control of himself, but Sephiroth does manage to force him to hand over the Black Materia at the Temple of the Ancients. However, Sephiroth fails to control him at the Forgotten City and the North Crater. I couldn’t outright point it out in the narrative, but the more self-assured and confident Cloud gets, the less time he loses―i.e. the less is Sephiroth able to control Cloud’s awareness and motor functions. This is why Cloud was so out of it when Tifa found him: just look at the conversation he had with Zack the day before. Sephiroth exploited this moment of weakness. But, after the temple, they finally understand what they are dealing with, and, in conjunction with Zack’s returning memories of the experiments, Cloud learns to combat Sephiroth’s influence. (I should also note that Sephiroth has no control over Zack because the S-cells had no effect on him, as confirmed by Genesis in CC.) 
> 
> Moreover, since there is no need for secrecy in this timeline, Aerith doesn’t leave for the Forgotten City by herself and is thus protected by a minimum of three people who would kill for her in a heartbeat. Similarly, since Cloud’s memories remained intact, he does not stay at the North Crater with Sephiroth and therefore never falls into the Lifestream. Meteorfall still happens (while they reclaim the Black Materia at the North Crater, Sephiroth tricks them into handing it off to a remnant disguised as one of the party members), but Aerith’s prayer reaches the planet, so the world survives, even if it must rebuild. 
> 
> Also, I am on the fence as to whether Geostigma exists in this universe. On the one hand, I like that it encourages Rufus to atone for Shinra’s sins, but on the other, I don’t want to make Zack suffer by having Cloud and Denzel be inflicted with it (I’ve already hurt him enough). As such, if Geostigma does exist, then I’m going to declare that Aerith manages to find a cure before it gets bad. After all, she healed it in canon.
> 
> Lastly, do Zack and Cloud actually get married? Yes and no. Honestly, I feel like they wouldn’t bother making it official after leaving Midgar, considering their circumstances. It’s not like they’re legally registered anywhere. Instead, they just start introducing themselves as husbands to everyone they meet (much to Aerith’s delight). Sometime after Meteorfall, probably when they’re officializing Denzel’s adoption, one of their newer companions finds out and encourages them to actually get married―maybe Vincent, because that concept is hilarious to me (he’s a diehard romantic, let’s be real). Thus, they compromise with a symbolic ceremony for their friends and family. It’s lovely, and Cloud shocks everyone by being the one to cry out of the two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and/or comments are always appreciated! ♡
> 
> \- My beta reader, literally the sweetest person in the world, surprised me with [A BOUND EDITION OF MY FIC](https://ivyelevast.tumblr.com/post/643949156878221312/my-beta-reader-kateydidit-is-literally-the-best). I am still reeling. It is BEAUTIFUL.


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